


The Lucozade

by cherryskissy



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Harry, BoyxBoy, Consensual Sex, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Fingering, Harry Styles - Freeform, Harry has daddy issues, Louis Tomlinson - Freeform, M/M, Minor Eleanor Calder/Louis Tomlinson, Pining Harry, Pining Zayn, Rough Sex, Sex, Smut, Top Zayn, Zayn Malik - Freeform, Zayn seems like a dick, everybody has issues, okay hes kinda a dick, one direction - Freeform, very top zayn, zarry - Freeform, zarry stylik, zayn has issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 31,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23194561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryskissy/pseuds/cherryskissy
Summary: 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗' 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚣𝚎*Standing up there, in front of the crowd who talked amongst themselves whispers of secrets in the dim lit room and covered them with brandy and doses of scotch, the light emitting this ice glaze, he almost felt powerful.
Relationships: Eleanor Calder/Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles/Original Male Character(s), Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Comments: 5
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

Leonard Jackson

_there's a little bit of devil_   
_in her_   
_angel eyes_   
_-_

"name?"

"Leonard Jackson" there's a quiver in his breath as he repeats the name to the man who, quite like the bouncer, glares skeptically at his presence. Aside from the inch-too-small faded black suit that you would probably come to assume was no more than fifty dollars from a second hand store somewhere downtown, the disheveled mousy locks that were ruined by nervous fingers trailing through them as he pursed his lips, the pacing back and forth outside the entrance of the night club, and the boots that seemed dull without the shine of a recent polish, he stood like a sore thumb simply by the baby face that he sported. Even still, he would push back his shoulders, stand straight, and furrow his brows as though to stand equal to the 'adults' that grunted their words and stood proud in these establishments on a regular weeknight.

"and that is?" the man trailed off, looking toward the dark case that accompanied the boy who simply shrugged"change of plans" to the fact he was meant to be playing a piano solo not guitar. He finally gave in, probably too tired to be dealing with the fact this _kid_ was definitely not the legal age for a professional club like _The Lucozade,_ and allowed him to go on. There was always the rush that came when he took the first stride through the intimidating entrance tucked behind the curtain as the security guard stood aside and probably rolled their eyes at the sight of this naive child strolling in with his tattered guitar; the same one he sat endless hours with in the depths of his room strumming and picking at the strings until either the blisters grew unbearable or his father stormed in and squawked over the fact it was _too damn late for that racket_ , mumbling curses under his breath as he shut off the light and stormed out just before Harry would repeat the tune in his head whilst plucking with a more gentle hand-but he couldn't help but feel _powerful_ and _untouchable_ in that moment as the red neon glow turned into a deeper mischievous one before and the stage flooded with such a pristine white light, he swore he could sometimes hear choirs of angels, and all eyes were on him. only for a second, maybe, before they went back to their dull chatter and lonely drinks-but there was still a moment.

He would never expect what was to come in any new place he worked in. _worked._ he almost scoffed. he was simply a prostitute for the industry, to come by any job he could that would give him just enough to scrape by that weeks rent no matter the state of the place and how unclean it smelt. Even then, you would never find him complaining, because anything is better than nothing-especially in such a business like this one.

However, this new _gig_ , he squirmed his way into when the piano man fell ill from jet lag after a trip home from Paris in which he performed at an awards show and probably partied with a few glasses of the finest champagne by a foreign label and the company of other rich snobs who only came together so that they could brag about how expensive the Yacht they bought last week for their trip to the Bahamas this coming summer, or the beach house they finally finished building in Barcelona, was rather than musical interest. How he landed this sneaky opportunity-well that's a secret to him- but here he was, fingering between a few C's to E minors. He wasn't Harry Styles right now, and none of these people would come to find that this performer was anyone other than Leonard Jackson if interested enough to ask, but that wasn't something he worried about.

_I wanna taste her lips, yeah cause they taste like you...i wanna drown myself in a bottle of her perfume..._

After this, he would return back stage and gently place the aged instrument into its dingy but certainly taken care of leather case before taking that nights pay for Leonard Jackson, quite a good stack considering the twenty minute setup he was given (in comparison to his usual eight minute gig where he would speed through lines annoyingly), and going home to his single-person apartment and feed his cat _Leroy_ before heading to bed. Maybe if he was feeling it, he would stop by that cramped chinese take out stop that you would miss if you hadn't lived here long enough to know what alley's lead to these secret delicacies remaining out of eye to the common tourist-making it feel somewhat exclusive.

_oh and i got a girl crush..._

the final strums, that last ten to fifteen seconds, feel like the final moments of an orgasm. you feel yourself getting there and you soak it all in, waiting for it to finally hit you, almost begging for it as you strum harder.

Then you finally climax, and it's over in a coat of pants and ecstasy, and Leonard Jackson takes a courteous bow as if to bask in the last of this moment, pretending the crowd is going wild and cheering for him to grace them with maybe another two minutes of his time and a hit single instead of engaging in hushed secret meetings and guilty affairs they call a common thursday night.

He's walking through the dressing room with an envelope of cash, giving his best smile to the petite figure of a woman pushing a pin through a golden sweep of her hair, not bothering to return the gesture, before passing him for her twenty minutes of Dorris Day covers. As he looks up to the door, the guard-who he thought was quite the intimidating bold man-was conversing with a younger, but more buff man with tattoos lining his dark bicep down to his wrist and they are both looking in his direction.

he wants to turn but there's nowhere else to go other than on stage, and he's scared that might result in more of a scene, so he keeps his head low and walks between a man holding a tray of drinks toward the exit, hoping to get lost in the subtle but restless crowd of employees and performers gliding in and out of the room out of sight.

Of course he's unlucky when a tanned, little-less-big, but still-big-enough-to knock-the-breath-out-of-him man steps in front of him and asks for a moment.

By now he's sure he's caught, wondering how he's gonna work that shift tomorrow morning at the bakery down in central when he's dragging himself around because he's unable to walk from broken legs, if not worse-getting taken in by the police for impersonating someone he's not.

"There's an open slot tomorrow between nine-thirty and ten" the man's voice is deep like his own but soaked in a mean mask, sounding like his wind pipes had been dragged through endless streets at late hours of the night pursuing illegal acts, or maybe years of trying to perfect it in prison.

Of course it's stupid and risky, but who would it hurt to be Leonard Jackson for just one more half hour of his life? So he smiles and nods at the offer before slipping out the back with a content sigh of relief and hails a cab.


	2. the lucozade

_She is addictive_   
_A pure heart_   
_A dirty mind_   
_-_

He lugs the large case onto the tube, holding it between his legs as if it were an immaculate artefact, so fine that even the slightest touch will cause it to crumble-but that's almost exactly what it is to him. The case was given to him by his grandfather, leaning down to him as he places it in his lap on his tenth birthday, a week before his heart would give out and he would be gone. He says "keep it safe" but he's not referring to the oversized hunk of hollow wood and strings in his arms, or the generations old case that he himself once lugged through night streets between pubs and restaurants, but his _desire_ , the ambition to be the _Edward_ _Styles_ of his time.

His father scoffed at him, telling the _old bag_ not to manifest such stupid fantasies in the boy's head.

The case then sits in the back room behind the shelf of flour safely hidden until he would finish his eight hour shift and carry the heavy artefact back onto the tube and deeper into the city, sporting that days work attire bearing the lingering stench of coffee and sweat from standing in front of the machine pouring and serving all day.

He finds himself at the back entrance of _The Lucozade_ once again and humours at the creative but fitting name for the building. Most clubs he found himself in were fake-ID, cheap, putrid ones that held drug deals and the occasional drunken fight because someone stood on someone's toes or elbowed someone's back. This one, it was much more classy. The bouncers at each door glared a little longer, the smell could only be described as a musk after sex vibe but in a fresh-vanilla way.

It was much more open so there's less chances of bumping into others, and the people didn't wear low hung jeans and nikes or fake silver jewellery and smudged eyeliner, they wore their best suits and finest, s _exiest_ dresses. He found it weird how dressed up these people would get to simply get drunk, meet up with some of their _business friends_ or _other_ _friends._ The type of people who hung around here were the people who had too much to lose, and he's certain that in reality, this would be a shadier club than any other in Los Angeles.

He took to the stage after waving to the guard "bet you weren't expecting me again" he smiled with a hint of a cocky nod of his head as he passed him.

_Looks like we made it, look how far we've come my baby..._

He played a series of songs, Fleetwood Mac, Johnny cash, the classic stuff his grandpa would always sing him to sleep with and play a little louder in the back of his Volkswagen than the ordinary radio hits until his set is over again and he's making his way behind the curtain and out of sight once more.

"Good show" he hears as he is walking through the dressing room and his head tugs back to the side where there's man in a blacker, finer, suit than his own. That sort of hits him in the gut, reminding him he's Harry Styles, the baker boy that works mostly nine to five in central, stumbling into low budget gigs on the side where he can, and the people surrounding him suddenly seem so big.

"Oh god you are-" he realises he's seen this guy. Back when he waited tables in a crappy restaurant downtown when he first came to LA, he remembers this man who played once a week, and he would find himself begging for shift swaps just to hear the man play _I'm so lonesome I could cry_ and he's back in his grandpa's living room on an odd Saturday night while he listens to the record play. That was the thing about his grandpa, music followed him everywhere, and Harry even came to believe he was the King of music himself. That was until he died, then the record player no longer sung Sammy Davis Jr and Bobby Darin during the week, or Stevie Nicks in the fall, the music drained from the world and it died just as he did, making reality feel just somewhat more bitter and dull.

"Have a good night" the man pats his back and walks out through the curtain to the stage. Harry felt a pang of nostalgia in his chest, a smile creeping onto his face as he walked toward the desk to claim his cheque.

"You" the man pointed him out as he stood forward "follow" he doesn't give Harry a moment to even blink as he begins to walk out the heavy lit room and he stumbles after him carrying his prized guitar.

He's being sat down in a booth, the leather is uncomfortable and black, feeling so neglected that it hasn't been given the opportunity to even been worn in yet. It's a more reserved corner of the club where no one dares to turn and look at and he's nervous again. Maybe he shouldn't have taken that offer, it had to be too good to be true, and now he's going to die.

He's not waiting long before two big men, one he's noticing as the man who stopped him yesterday with the tattoo sleeve and the other a new face, with yet another who stands out. Even though he's much smaller than the other two, he looks tougher, and he pushes back the sides of his burgundy suit as he takes a seat across from Harry and folds his hands.

Harry's eyes linger on the tattoos that peak out his sleeves and kiss his knuckles, a Mandala flower dressing his left while the written word 'love' laces over his right and Harry wants to laugh at the irony of this man-his aura screaming 'I'll kill you if you look my way' while his features whisper gentle touches and sweet nothings. It may be dark in this booth, but Harry can see the man fall back until he's comfortable, his arms draping over the head of the leather couch as he crosses his legs and just _stares_ at him.

Harry stares back for a moment through the haze of smoke evaporating from this mans mouth as he takes a drag of a lit cigarette that speaks _I don't_ _give_ _a_ _shit_ before shuffling in his place. That must give the man queue to speak as he leans in slightly and points the stick to him "so, what's your _real_ name?" His voice only adds to his hardened exterior-dirty and slurred, but not in a drunk matter at all. Shudders rack Harry's bones like they are taking in every word, as though they were not yet apart of his vocabulary and he stutters over himself.

"How did you-" he pulls his hands into his lap and falls in on himself. He's been caught.

"Leonard Jackson is a fifty five year old single man, who certainly doesn't dress the finest, but neither in skinny jeans. He doesn't sing, and plays the same solo's on his grand piano every night he's in" Harry feels he's part of a joke. This whole time he thought he had them all but he was the one being played.

"Harry Styles" he sighs, the name is bland and definitely not the sound of a successful piano man to him.

"Harry Styles" the man repeats as though he's testing it, tuning it like a guitar, playing it.

_Harreh._

"I want you to play on Monday night" it hits Harry, if not as obvious as it already was before, that this is the _big_ _man_ -the boss of the club-he's speaking to. The offer is what hits him next. _No._ Not offer, it's a _demand_.

"You what-" he's dumbfounded.

"Between eleven and eleven thirty" Harry didn't know a club like this would be open that late on a Monday-but then again this club seems to keep landing surprises on him. He nods though. Monday. Monday night.


	3. blue velvet

_Satan's hands are shaky_   
_From the burdens that he carries_   
_-_

Monday night, _The Lucozade_ is quieter than the usual weekend as expected at any club. Monday nights are those for lonely unrequited lovers, the broken hearted and the ones who turn to any sort of reminiscent of their youthful days where they could sit up and party into the late hours of every weekday to hide the fact they are growing old and still haven't reached the destination in life they hoped they would have by now. That night he plays a damp acoustic of _Lonesome Loner_ and _Breathe (in the air)_ along with some other take backs and he feels good to know he can just play whatever he feels for half an hour. If he wants he can play some _Beatles_ and lighten the mood, or he could play the depths of _Elton_ and make them cry, because that's the power of music and the control it has over the heart.

He toys with the hem on his sleeve, a blue velvet suit that was held to the side and given to him by _Gus_ _(_ as he would find to be the stage guards name).

"From the boss" he revealed when Harry stared at him in confusion, the suit compacted in a silver bland box with a neat bow on top and he can't help but snicker when he reads " _Harry_ _Stiles_ ". The suit was beautiful, and real velvet texture-not the second rate sort of thing you'd expect to be more on his budget.

The show ends and he steps out, nodding at Gus, at this point simply teasing the gruff man who is yet to fall for his charm. He takes a swig from the water bottle left on the table-deciding to pretend it to be his designated spot- and goes to pull off his jacket because he wouldn't dare get so much of a _crease_ in this damn suit before _Eddie_ (who he also comes to learn the name of the big man with the tattoo sleeve) speaks up from the door "Zayn asked for you after your set, and to leave the suit on" Harry swallows back the water in his mouth and shrugs the jacket back up, catching himself patting it down because he doesn't want to look bad in front of his _boss_ _(_ if he could call him that) especially after he's the one who spent the money on getting it for him.

 _Zayn._ He thinks on it as he follows Eddie through the hall until they reach the main section of the club where there are fewer bodies now that he really looks. The name is mysterious as the man who holds it, it's something he's never tasted, but it seems so comfortable.

Zayn is standing at the bar, seemingly talking to the tender and checking his watch before his eyes meet Harry's own and even though the red lights hide his features enough to leave Harry guessing, he sure as hell can feel the presence of power and control Zayn hinders as he waves around a glass of what Harry can only assume is scotch. He knows his father drank scotch because his father was a powerful man, who could skull the liquid in one swig without the bat of an eye unlike the time Harry stumbled into his cabinet at fourteen and choked on the dry concoction, vowing never to touch alcohol again (at least until Jennifer Hale's 17th birthday party).

He doesn't dare to speak as he walks up and joins him, feeling as though he shouldn't without permission, before Zayn looks him up and down and takes him in behind a mouthful of his glass "Friday" he says after swallowing and Harry can confirm he was in fact drinking scotch because he can smell the brown rug in which he spat out his fathers drink in the study where he held the liquor, and he can even smell his father as the word leaves Zayn's mouth. It makes him cringe but he nods, something he's come very good at as he realises. "That's all?" He couldn't help but feel a little confused because why was it Zayn had to have Harry escorted to him so _he_ himself could utter the request instead of getting Gus or Eddie to on his way out?

Zayn chuckles, and it's low, and Harry swears he feels it in his own chest "no-I want you to come by my house tomorrow night" he speaks so casual, as though Harry should trust this man who he only just found the name of, and knows nothing more of him other than the fact he could probably reign terror on any guy who had the audacity to come into his club and disrespect him-and he drinks scotch. Did Harry disrespect him? Because he thought he could get away with playing in a big nice club given his lack of professionalism?

"Your house?" Harry repeated just in case he missed the punch line but Zayn's just nodding with such sureness "I want you to play for me" he confirms and Harry feels his cheeks turning as neon red as the sign on the wall that pointed arrow to the bathrooms.

"I will say, two times a week. Monday and Friday night 11-11:30" he puts the now empty glass down on the counter and Harry feels the wind fall out of his mouth " _oh,_ for your club". Zayn chuckles again, brinking a laugh, "I need a yes or no now, I don't want to be wasting my time" he turns serious and Harry almost falls on his ass because of how fast that changed.

He nods nonetheless and Zayn cocks an eyebrow "words?"

Harry swallows back and nods again "yes, that sounds great" the nervousness pools out of him and he's sure Zayn senses it because he sits up a little straighter than before as if to announce his dominance as he buttons his blazer "good, I will have Eddie come pick you up tomorrow from your house so give him your address on your way out" Zayn pulls an envelope out of his pocket and hands it to him, his pay for that night.

He seems to be finished talking and Harry doesn't want to overstay his welcome so he slips the envelope into the pocket of his suit and clears his throat "thank you for the suit" he made sure to mention, remembering his manners when people were to give him things. Especially something as big as this and even if it meant nothing to Zayn, it meant _worlds_ to him.

Zayn could probably beat him up over the fact Harry is sure the suit was more a business proposition because he can't have someone looking the way he did in his old clothes in such a nice place like this where the girls wore glitter gowns and the men were clean to the very last speck, and not a friendly gesture, but instead Zayn nods and tells him to _wear it tomorrow night._


	4. you're blue

_Light and dark_   
_Hold me hard and mellow_   
_-_

Just as promised, Eddie shows up out the front of Harry's building and when he hears the buzzer indicating he's waiting. Harry rushes over and promises him he'd be just a second as he pours the last of the cat chow he has in Leroy's bowl and makes sure to take a mental note to get some when he's next at the store before pulling on his blue jacket and heading downstairs.

"You're lucky if we aren't late" Eddie scolds and Harry slips into the backseat of the black commodore parked in the street looking too shiny and new to be caught in an area like this.

That's something he learns about Zayn. That he likes to schedule, he needs stability, and everything must fall in perfect time, and he's not sure he wants to find out what would happen if he were to have ended up at his two story home-a Trousdale estate- which is perfectly perfect for Zayn because it's definitely up there but not the most pristine, a little dirty, any later than expected. Of course it's damn close though.

Eddie drops him before driving off, forcing Harry to knock on the door himself, and he's terrified to do so because it's that kind of glass you're not sure you should be _touching_ _,_ scared to leave finger prints behind. Zayn pulls open the door and Harry's first glimpse of the house sees its dark. It's not black, but it's no white, somewhat close to a space grey all the way through but on the darker side with still the perfect amount of lighting.

That and it's empty. Well, it's full of furniture, from the marble coffee table holding a fern and some coasters to the shoe rack by the door that seems more built just to fill the home. Harry's sure most of the furniture here remains untouched, but filling your space with as many miscellaneous items as you could find in an ikea catalogue seems to overtime close the lonely void of empty space around you and Harry comes to respect that in a way.

Of course he can't be one to assume Zayn doesn't file dozens upon dozens of women in and out of his home weekly after one night stands but from what he's gathered, Zayn seems to be a reserved person.

Zayn steps into the living room where Harry took a seat on the long black couch that felt like it had never held a passed out guest or a spot to lie down and watch television for hours, feeling almost sorry for the neglected furniture. He hands him a clear glass, with not a single chip or scratch, holding a golden liquid and he doesn't want to look like -that guy- but he puts the glass down on one of the coasters and sits back "so why did you want to see me exactly?" He didn't want to come across as rude, he just felt confused. Zayn was _very_ confusing.

"Well I'm hiring you, so I need you to fill out a contract, if that's what you want to call it" oh, of course. Harry could pester him about how he could have asked him to sign it at the club but he decides to not ask questions.

There was only a few pages and Zayn hands him a slim metal pen, the kind of complimentary one you'd get at the bank with its engraved company name and he skims through them quickly. "I have to warn you, I'm not exactly-legal" Harry feels his cheeks heat up because he feels like a child standing under a sign that says "you must be this tall to ride this" hoping if he sucks in his breath and straightens his spine he might grow an extra inch.

"I'm twenty, but I turn twenty one in only a few months" he doesn't want to lose this job. This is the best gig that's dropped into his lap, and sure he's not old enough to be caught in this damn place, but surely that won't matter.

Zayn shrugs "I opened my club when I was twenty" and Harry signs off his name before handing it back to him.

"So how old are you then?" Harry hopes he's not crossing boundaries by the question but he can't help but be curious because Zayn radiates 27 but looks 22.

"Twenty four" He takes a sip of his drink and Harry nods, cursing himself for not being on point but giving himself props for coming close. The room goes silent for another moment and Harry fiddles with his jacket sleeve again to keep him busy before Zayn stands "you are related to Edward Styles" he takes the papers to the kitchen before stopping in the doorway behind Harry on his way back, casually leaning against it with a hand in his pocket whilst the other holds his drink and he looks like the models in vogue or the rich heart throb in a teen movie.

"He was my grandfather" he nods. It feels nostalgic when he says that though, because yes he thinks about him, but it's not very often he engages conversation over him. His grandfather did have his prime time before he settled down with his grandma and dad, and every now and then there would be the 'oh Styles, like that guy who sang that song' but he would only nod and say _yeah I get that sometimes._

"Bet you didn't expect me to catch that" He can hear the smirk playing on his lips, hands falling to the back of the head rest and he feels so close, like he's trying to invade his personal space just to get a kick out of him. Instead Harry avoids the question because it feels more rhetorical, like Zayn was listening when he thought about the loneliness of his couch and the fact he couldn't quite pin point how old he was.

"It's a very fitting look on you-blue" Zayn says next as he kicks off the back of the couch and comes back around to take his seat, he's staring right at him but it feels more like he's evaluating him-the way you stare at the pieces of a puzzle, picturing where they form.

His eyebrows perk "sorry?" Not quite sure he understands.

"Blue is seen as trustworthy and calm because it's a constant; just as the ocean and the sky are; they are all-inclusively vast and beyond perception" He pauses as though to make sure Harry is following, like a school teacher who's attempting to teach math.

"We are yet to discover the bottom of the ocean, and to reach the limits of the sky with our bare hands. The sky and the ocean are unpredictable because even blue; the sky shifts rapid and creates monstrous storms, and the same, the ocean will betray its sailors and the currents will change, creating ferocious waves" that's the irony of blue.

Does Zayn think that of him?

"Although endlessly beautiful; exceedingly dangerous"


	5. turning

𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 

𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴

-

"Calvin"

A man in blue faded jeans and a red flannel steps forward and Harry wants to roll his eyes at how he's wearing sunglasses in winter, inside nonetheless He gives him a slight curt smile before falling back behind the machine. Harry hates coffee, how rich it is in taste, like dark chocolate-it's lacking sweetness.

His nose tingles at the waft of the black mocha he's brewing and suddenly he's thinking about Zayn. Zayn seems like a coffee person; dark and rich-he chuckles.

"Harry" his head perks up and he quickly let's go of the lever that's pouring a little too much coffee into the cup, turning his head to the attention of Ronnie; the man who came to LA to pursue his dreams of his own franchise opposite a coastal beach and it would be bright and white, but had to settle on a cramped up space down in central which is miles from any mass of water unless it's the sewer.

He's beckoning him over and Harry is giving his tea towel to Amanda: a young waitress who is aspiring to open a clothing line, but she's only eighteen and a little shy, before following after the man who slides into the back office.

"Take a seat" he gestures to the worn in amber couch and Harry can't help but compare to Zayn's eyes-they too seemed frayed and full of age. He sits down and puts his hands in his lap. He isn't very fond of Ronnie because he's been here long enough to see when he purposely takes a few notes from Amanda's slip, saying the kids he hires need him more than he needs them because no matter what they get, it's better than anything else they can manage at their age. He is a dirty man, but that's what this place seems to do to people with time and realisation.

"We are making cut backs" Harry's heart falters in his chest. He knows it's coming, and sort of just spaces out when Ronnie goes on about how much on an asset he's been to the company in the two years he worked here, and how Ronnie would consider him close to a son, but because he's a few months older than Xander-meaning he's too expensive for this small lacking business-he's going to have to be let go.

Amanda offers to make him a drink on his way out and he shakes his head, but takes the brownie she insists he has, before stepping out into the street. It feels colder than before, but maybe that's just his subconscious toying with him telling him he's going to have to get used to the harsh climate because he'll be living outside in it given a few weeks because even with his current job at _The Lucozade_ it's merely two shifts and not enough.

He falls into the cab with a sigh before the man glares at him through the mirror and questions _where to_? He can't help but think on it for a moment, maybe to go home, or go to a park, but's it's cold and his fingertips are freezing over already "can you drop me at this address?" He hands him a slip of paper, a rough few scrapes of pen drawn into a number and street, before giving him a dubious glare but getting to it.

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. It's when the cabby pulls him out of that thought with a exasperated "sir are you going to get out?" That he forces himself to hand him a twenty, being the only thing on him, and telling him to just keep the change because he knows he has none and then gets out.

By the time he reaches the door, he's considering just legging it, walking home. Then the door opens and he is looking vacantly back at the man who's giving him a slightly questionable look but simply moves aside in an inviting manner that Harry accepts and finds himself letting go of the breath he was holding "I'm sorry, I swear I had a reason for this-but I forgot it in the cab" he shifts on his toes, eyeing the too-clean floorboards that glossed over with wax that looked fresh but were probably just not yet worn in.

"Take a seat on the sofa" he indicates before moving passed him and into the kitchen which Harry realises now he's not yet seen. Actually he hasn't seen anything outside the eye of the living room and front hall so who is he to assume he's an expert? The kitchen he imagines is the same paint that coated this room, a marble island, and an untouched stove top because if he is _that_ rich then why would he bother cooking for himself?

When he treads back into the room, he hands Harry a _glass of water_ and he thanks him before taking a sip because his mouth feels so dry right now.

"So?" Zayn was definitely not expecting company so Harry can't help but wonder if he wears anything apart from suits, and what his closet would look like. Would he get dressed in ridiculous street wear off the job? Would he have silk pyjamas or would he sleep in just boxers? And why is Harry asking himself this question?

"I gotta be honest I didn't mean to be invasive-i just got fired and didn't know what to do" he tries to explain because the last thing he needs is Zayn to assume he's some obsessed ex girlfriend who is anything but independent. Zayn gives him a further questioning look, his eyebrows furrowing, and there's a haze of emotion Harry's yet to figure out in his eyes "look you're good but I don't have endless slots, and I'm not some charity so I'm just going to tell you that now"

Harry chokes on his water "wait-what?"

"You're too young to be working bar and I'm already pushing it having you step foot in the club" That look Harry now identifies is anger; but not because Harry showed up uninvited and unexpected- it's because Zayn thinks he's _using_ him. It's something that tells him Zayn's not unfamiliar with that feeling because he was so quick to jump on him about it but now he is a little hurt to be categorised as another one of Zayn's _colleagues_.

"No, I'm not asking for work" there's a hint of venom in his words because he is many things, but he is not the type to take advantage of someone's money.

"Well then why are you here?" That hits him a little harder than the accusation itself, because last night Zayn told him he's _blue_ and that he's _beautiful_ like sonnets for a lover and now he feels naive.

"No I-" He can't think of an answer, and it's only making the muscles of Zayn's face deepen with fury "yeah _exactly_ " he breathes but it's in more a laugh "get over yourself kid".

Harry's just about had it now. Of course he feels responsible for this because he's the idiot who thought they were friends all of a sudden after Zayn invites him in for a drink, but he can't stand there and have some douchebag shit on his morals. "I'm not a kid" just like that, he despises Zayn, because he's every single person that would count up his pay at the end of a show and hand him a ten saying 'kid, it's a tough business', and Zayn's his dad who told him endlessly to just _give it a rest kid_.

" _You_ are the one who came running to _me_ crying, _you_ are _soft_ "

"And _you_ are a _dickhead_ " Harry raises his voice now. It's very rare occasion he would, but when he does it's deeper than normal and more hoarse, like every fibre of bottled anger and endless 'kid' is seeping through the cracks.

Zayn laughs. Like seriously _laughs because_ he's never been called that before, at least not to his face, and it coming from a lanky, curly, kid is just entertaining "okay baby".

Harry picks up his coat, storming toward the door "fuck you-and your fucking too-good club" he's not entirely sure how he's going to get home, but knows right now anywhere is better than here, and if he stays a second longer he might just punch Zayn in the face.


	6. and again

_Don't you take me for a fool_   
_In this game, I own the rules_   
_-_

Stepping through the thick velvet curtain from the back office, black shoes twinkle and point as he walks . He radiates not simply confidence, but power, boldness. A blonde girl treading along beside him but she means nothing to him. In an hour, the club will die down and the music will come to a close, the last performer would fall out the back just the same with the final drunk man on their way home and he will do just the same, alone.

For now, he struts the red velvet carpet with the blonde dame, who he would not care to find the name of, and they will sit in a corner with his hand around her small waste against the sequin of her crimson dress and he will evaluate the people who pass him and sit in booths or by the bar with a close eye-but no one would see him the same.

That was the thing about him, he was very good at seeing things. He analysed with a steady eye. Guitar strums fill the air but it's just loud enough for his ears to prick up, and his head turns to the stage with somewhat a content smirk.

"Eddie" he gestured to the man who stood against the corner of the couch, just the same _evaluating_ the room. Eddie was probably the closest he would call a friend, he's loyal and trusting, years of it.

He leans in as Zayn whispers something to him before he nods and walks off, Zayn turns to the girl in his hand and notices her for the first time. Her sequin glimmers with a tinge of dirt and there's not a smudge of lipstick or concealer on her pretty face. "You-go" he looks away and she doesn't argue, only stands and walks off with a shake of her ass.

The set ends and he fixes his sleeve, straightening his deep lilac jacket before taking another sip of scotch, looking up to see the familiar boy in the familiar blue velvet suit.

Harry is standing there, his arms are crossed and his horrendous case is sitting on his shoulder making his posture droop a little bit. Zayn chuckles at the look and it seems to only dampen Harry's mood as he furrows his brows a little deeper "what are you laughing at?" It's sassy like a child who's just been denied a toy at the store, stomping their foot and refusing to move until they get their way.

"That suit really does fit you well" and Harry's angry aroma falters slightly because he thinks it's a compliment and that maybe Zayn isn't here to point any more snarky comments at him. Zayn won't deny, he wasn't expecting the boy to actually show up for his line up after his _fuck you and your club_ argument and he feels so right because Harry really is unpredictable.

"You work in a club, but you don't drink" Zayn can't help but wonder aloud as Harry gives in and takes a seat across from him with his heavy guitar sitting beside him. So, Zayn really does pay attention. Eddie walks over to Zayn in one signal of a finger and asks if the _car is ready_ and Harry starts to feel he's going to die again.

"You are coming back to my place with me" it's not a question, and Harry is almost certain Zayn knows when he's going to get his way because he sounds too definite with himself. So Harry carry's his hunk of mass along with him, even after Eddie comes over to take it off his hands, swatting him away and telling Zayn no one touches it, to which he nods and they slip out of the club and into the black car similar to the one he was in the first night he went to Zayn's.

The drive is spent silently because Harry isn't yet sure he's ready to talk to Zayn unless he's offering him an apology. Of course it crossed his mind when he willingly followed the man out into his car, the fact he's running right back to him, and he does it so easily without notice because it's like Zayn is a force and there's this hidden magnet between them.

Once arriving at the house, Zayn toes off his shoes and Harry notices the car drive off like Zayn doesn't expect Harry to be needing a ride home. He also notices the fern that once stood on the small marble coffee table is missing, replaced instead with a square blue box. Zayn tells him to sit and Harry chuckles to himself "I'm not one of your dogs, you can stop ordering me around" it must take Zayn off guard, and Harry thinks he's probably never been talked back to like that because of the brief look of surprise before amusement takes over "yet you still do exactly what I say".

Almost as if to prove a point, Zayn stands beside-no- _over_ him with a glass in hand and takes his jaw in his free hand, lifting it so that Harry is facing him with full attention.

Harry's really looking at him, without the hues of ruby red clouding his image. He may not be able to see Zayn's muscles under his suit, but he's sure they are littered with tattoos just like the ones that peak out at his wrists and above his chest, and he can sense them tensing at the stare Zayn is giving him. Harry has watched animal planet, as a child he wasn't much a fan of it because of the animals that would eat one another and it would scare him, and his father would be sitting on the couch with remote in hand telling Harry it's _the circle of life_ and that _if you don't watch your back in this world kid, you'll get eaten by_ _the next guy_ _._ He would then turn back to the documentary just as the lion captures the running gazelle and he would stand in horror and run out-having nightmares of it for a solid week. He's sure he's still afraid of lions because of that, and he refused the school trip to the zoo just because of it. The look Zayn is giving him right now looks all too similar to the one the Lion gives the prey right before it jumps at it, and Harry knows he's the gazelle.

His grasp let's loose enough that Harry knows he could pull away from it, but he thinks Zayn knows he can too, and despite that he _doesn't_ move an inch. His thumb pads gently over his jaw before Zayn takes a swig of his glass, holding it to Harry's mouth next and telling him _drink._ Again, it's a demand, and the smell burns his nostrils like gasoline that makes his eyes water as he tilts his head back and allows him to pour some of the liquid into his mouth. It burns his throat just as hard as he swallows and he holds back a cough because he's too fixated on Zayn eyeing him off almost like he's afraid.

Zayn rubs away the residue from his lip as they turn wet and a little deeper pink if possible before taking it to his mouth and licking off "like a good boy".


	7. booz and blunts

_Some people are meant to be loved_   
_And others just naked_   
_-_

Harry remembers the first time he ever got drunk at a junior party in high school. Not much of the experience he can vividly recall, but he remembers the way Tricia Palmer curled her petite fingers around his neck as he danced to the tune of some _Bieber_ song with someone's tie working as a bandana to keep his hair out of his face. He wasn't very conscious of the situation when she was thrusting her hips toward him because he was too preoccupied on the way it felt so nice to just _dance_ like he didn't care who watched and all the stress of midterms next week fell from his shoulders like taking off a backpack of rocks. In fact, it wasn't until her tongue was in his mouth and he could taste the chewing gum, strawberry flavoured, and it all came back to him-the alcohol that was-and in return, he threw up into hers.

He was so embarrassed that he considered not even showing up to school the next week, but thankfully Tricia was too embarrassed to even talk about it to anyone. At that point in his life, he had an inkling he was gay by the way he focused a little harder in English to the voice of Mr Parson's as he recited _Robert Frost_ and the way his ass looked in those pant suits in comparison to Ms Emerson who was his music teacher who-lets just say-sparked more than just the interest in the difference between a brass and a woodwind instrument when it came to the dozens of boys who took up her class. He wasn't sure if it was really the liquor, or the fact it just didn't taste right when it came to the kiss that made him throw up, but he made the effort at the end of exams party to hang a little more loose, grind a little harder against Amelia Durden and try and picture Mr Parson's ass in those pants as he cupped hers and he even stuck his tongue down her throat, just to prove a point he guesses.

Right now, he was starting to feel seventeen again, as he sipped on the vodka Zayn slipped into his hand and as his veins started to feel warm and fuzzy.

"What's that?" The paper Zayn was rolling peaked a sudden interest in him, the way he did it with such precision despite the few burbons he had had at that point.

"Heaven, Baby" Zayn dragged his tongue across the edge of the thinning paper as he folded and twisted. Next, he pulled out the black lighter from his pocket and stilled it under the blunt for a moment until it lit up. Harry's mouth fell open because he couldn't believe Zayn was taking out a blunt right now in his own living room, but then again why wouldn't he? Coke seems more the rich boy scene, but it's too classy he guesses, and the way the stick holds between his lips as he drags only concludes that.

"This is some of the finest spliff you will ever smoke" he hands it to Harry and he doesn't know what to do with it for a moment, and it's not just the alcohol in his system saying that, because he's never smoked weed before. He thinks it's like smoking a cigarette, another thing he once tried, failed and ended up just hating, so he pulls on it just the same as he would then. He thinks he breathed in too damn hard though because now he's coughing and the smoke is forming clouds like a stormy afternoon in his vision and after it finally clears he can just see Zayn cackling, holding his stomach and falling back into the couch. That makes Harry laugh, and they both sit in a fit for a moment before Zayn gets up to take the blunt back from him.

"That felt so weird" Harry giggles after handing it back and Zayn pushes back his hair as though he was caught letting himself fall and straightens himself back up. Harry scowls a moment "how do you do that?"

Zayn looks up to him as though to ask _what are you on about?_ And Harry giggles again "how do you act so-" he makes a grimacing face and furrows his eyebrows as though to put on his best impression of Bruce Wayne.

Zayn laughs and just shrugs "I'm always professional". it sounds a little cheeky, the way his lip twitches and how his eyes linger on Harry's for a second too long which makes him want to hide behind his glass.

"You sound like my dad" Harry makes the pouty face again and Zayn sits forward "daddy issues?" It sounds almost as though he's mocking him and Harry frowns deeper.

"So _serious_ " He hiccuped before putting on his best impression of a big gruff man _You think God cares? You think he listens? Son, you're a dime in a dozen, time you realise._ He points as though he's scolding a younger version of himself, seeing the haze in the little boy's eyes as they glaze over in tears and he just rolls his eyes at him _you're going to cry? You're too sensitive for a world like this, the old man was a loon for the way he planted those god damn ideas in your head._

And little Harry would hold them back, stammering over his words, and he didn't even realise now he feels like a young Leonardo DiCaprio, begging for his life after being shot by his father.'I don't wanna die'. _don't say that about him!_ It was more of a plea.

 _You'll never make it out there kid, you're soft, and you'll be living on a park bench under newspapers before you think I'm going to support this fantasy._ His mother gives him those eyes, 'please just leave it' they beg him, and he's screaming _you're a coward! A failure of a father! You fucking-_ the air lingers with the sound of echoing skin on skin, his cheek going bright red as he stumbles over and he's back in the space grey living room, and he shifts on the uncomfortable couch a moment before swiping away the water spilling from his chin and laughing "oh I'm sorry"

He's afraid to look at Zayn but forces himself to, and the man is just evaluating him.

"I never met my father" he shrugged and Harry's heart falters in guilt "im sorry" he repeats like it might mean anything to him but Zayn shrugs "I'm not sad, at least then I can't be disappointed" and that makes Harry feel worse cause Zayn-He's the type of guy you want to be, cool and unbothered by anything, but that makes him so lonely too. Harry wears his heart on his sleeve as much as he wishes he didn't, and that makes him weak in his dads words, because he's too sensitive and that lets people know they can use you-people like Zayn.

"Stop doing that" Zayn pulls him from his thoughts and he stares up as if to ask _doing what?_

"The way you play with your lip when you are thinking, it gives it away. You know people don't enjoy being read like that" And it's almost humorous because that's exactly what Zayn has been doing to him all evening, only when Zayn says it with such a straight face, it wipes the feeling from his gut as he repeats _sorry._


	8. long friends

𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦, 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴

-

"-so you better be up" he nods in response as he massages at the ache in his temples before he's responding "yeah, don't worry, I'm up" and he's definitely not but surely he can manage five more minutes of slumber before his company.

Louis was in the city this weekend, something about flowers or napkins for the wedding in December. A white wedding. He remembers how mesmerised Eleanor was at the thought of getting married in the snow with a matching white silk dress-to which Louis nagged about how much he hated the cold but agreed nonetheless. It's silly how love can get you like that, so giddy you could run flight security to stop them at the gate before they make a mistake and go for the wrong guy, not starting their day at the rise of the sun but with them, it even surprised him how Louis wore that coral tie to dinner because Eleanor thought it brought out the blue in his eyes 'like an ocean' but had everyone chuckling hideous looks at. He frowned and scowled at them though, defending how 'it brings out my eyes' as he wrapped his arm over her shoulder.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

He was considering turning on his side and covering himself with his pillow just to muffle the sound enough so that he could pretend not to have heard it at all and fall back asleep. He's not sure how much he drank last night, but it was enough to have him forget even coming home, and enough to remind him in the morning why he doesn't drink at all.

He still gets up though, pouting at the dirty look Louis shoots him as if to say _thanks for making me wait_ but ends in him chuckling as Louis huddles in so that he can pull him in for a tight hug-as though having a high school reunion ten years after graduation.

Louis may be smaller, but god he makes up for it in muscle, lifting Harry off the balls of his feet as he groans _Louis I can't breathe when you do that!_

Despite his sour mood from being awoken at eight in the morning with a belting migraine, he has to admit he's glad to have the company of his friend. It's been a few months since Louis sold off his pride and joy bar uptown 'in the name of love' to lease out an apartment and buy a heavy diamond for the girl of his dreams in New York City and even if he didn't talk to the guy for a whole week because he was leaving him behind, he could understood where he was coming from, well at least he _believed_ he could.

He waves the boy off finally as he yawns and tells him to settle in whilst he goes for a shower, admittedly taking his sweet time to lather the fruity shampoo and conditioner through his hair and under his armpits whilst humming to the imaginary radio in his bathroom tuning to _always on my mind_ by _pet shop boys_ and lazily gathers his clothes after drying himself off.

"This is fancy" he steps out to see Louis snooping around aimlessly with a hand in his pocket and the other toying with the button of the blue suit sitting on the head of his couch before Harry's trudging over and snatching it away. "it's none of your business Tomlinson" he remarks with such sass, it makes Louis pout dramatically before a smirk follows up "what? have you got some second life you aren't telling me about?"

Harry rolls his eyes before waving him toward the door "let's go already, enough prying in my stuff" he's locking the door and they idly walk out of the building to head for the tube to go out for lunch 'somewhere nice' as Louis had said, boasting over how well his head chef job is doing in terms of income "yeah, we better go before I find your dirty porn collection. You're into that kinky bdsm shit I know! It's always the quiet ones!"

"What are you on about?" Harry rolls his eyes as they turn out of the building. The ride is a pleasant conversation over how business is going for Lou, how Harry should take the time to visit sometime because Louis can't help but worry over how lonely he could get in such a place as LA to which Harry scoffs and makes a witty joke but doesn't really want to think about it.

They sit outside a restaurant because the weather is actually fine enough that the wind won't blow their napkins away and Louis admits he has missed the sun over here unlike the 'gloomy and depressing' New York weather.

"I heard the air tastes like plastic" Harry would joke.

They are sitting in a comfortable silence now and Harry's eyes wander the surprisingly quiet street, but he supposed people would still be busy at work trying to get just enough coin to sport their family a trip to Bali or Australia for the sun this winter, when he catches a glimpse of a familiar face and he finds himself subconsciously holding a hand up to wave.

Louis is in the middle of rambling and stops to follow his friends sudden interested gaze. He's embarrassed, like a school girl who just fell flat on her face right in front of her crush, and Louis has a playful smirk on his lips "who is this?" It's too late now though because Zayn is stepping away from Eddie who he was previously conversing with to make his way over.

"Zayn" it's completely out of character for him to be wandering around at day because Harry had to admit he didn't think Zayn did anything out of being either at home or the club, let alone noticing Harry out in public-even though he's the one who initiated the contact.

Louis shakes Zayn's hand and offers a polite nod "I didn't think Harry _had_ friends" he tried to sound baffled and Zayn laughed, crows feet appearing beneath the band of his sunglasses before Louis is begging him to sit and have a drink.

"I'm just out attending to some business, but you should both come by the club tonight" his hand is in between the two of Harry's shoulder blades as he looks between them, mostly to Louis who is talking again, and Harry's scared to move because of the way his fingers graze over his shirt ever so slightly like he's rubbing gently, but maybe he's only imagining it.

When he lets go it's cliche of Harry to say it felt cold suddenly but he finds himself needing more contact, which if this was last night and he was still at the guys house, he would be opposed to because Zayn was intimidating-the way he presented himself and he was just so sure of himself, he didn't play around and make jokes, he was serious. Why that was so intimidating to him? Because Harry was-for lack of better word-a pussy. Or maybe just young.He still cries when he watches the notebook, and the fact he even admits to watching the _notebook_ amongst more rom coms is just embarrassing for a guy his age because he should be into _fight club_ and _pulp fiction_ but he's soft and violence scares him. So Zayn, being a polar opposite and maybe even more guy than any guy he's met before-even the jocks in high school who would promise him they are straight when they take their girl friend to their football game and slip behind the bleachers to fuck him against the cry of the crowd,just scares him. Those guys he wasn't proud of, even less of the number of them, because maybe he was just so desperate that he would let them push him face down against a beam and thrust into him with their hands over his mouth so harshly he would be choking and tears would be pooling out of his eyes before going home and showering, scrubbing at his skin until it's _pink_ , because he feels _disgusting_ but at the same time he _needs_ it.

"He's pretty" Louis raises his eyebrows suggestively and it's just the way he does it, Harry's seen it plenty before, and he's shaking his head "no, Louis".

"Okay mr subtle, you were eyeing him like candy" Harry has to remind him that Louis is straight, his gaydar is so off that he wouldn't notice a gay guy if he was caressing his wrist and buying him Piña Colada's whilst tilting their head and listening to him with just a little more interest than the ordinary person about how to cook salmon. Zayn, definitely straight alarms.

"When have I ever let you down Hazza?!" He argues. Apart from Mark Simmonds in senior year, that guy at that strip club they snuck into, Jamie Hammer who everyone conspired was cousin to _Armie Hammer_ in their year and almost actually cried when Harry came on a little too strong and offered him a blowjob at a wedding ceremony, and plenty more, Harry has to laugh. "shut up" Louis grumbles and sits back in his seat with a rough sigh "that guy was gay! I swear! He peed himself when Amber Grangle kissed him in junior year! What kind of guy!"


	9. comparing sizes

𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨

𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘴 

𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭 

𝘪𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨

-

The club is buzzing for a Thursday, which you probably wouldn't have guessed, but surprisingly people really do go out for drinks on such a random night of the week. Louis is wearing a black suit with a matching turtleneck beneath it and Eleanor is latched to his arm in a pearl white sequence dress which even Harry comments on how it makes her look stunning, and Louis elbows him with a deep frown "where's my compliment?"

Harry rolls his eyes, but says he looks good nonetheless, which is true-the young couple look like they came right off the set of an old Hollywood film somewhat resembling that of _James Dean_ and _Natalie Wood_ -if you squint- _he chuckles._

They had been swerved away from the usual crowd of customers by Eddie who lead them to a more private booth, complimentary of Zayn of course, who also said that it was all on the house. Louis was in heaven as he threw back his third shot and Eleanor beckoned him to calm down "so, Harry" she changes the topic of boring conversation-admitting to being sick of the chit chat about the wedding. _Of course I'm excited, I just want to eat a burger without my mother chewing my ear about how I won't be able to squeeze into my dress if I keep it up and 'doesn't this glass look gorgeous! We should purchase these for the wedding!' When they go out for dinner._ Louis is silently glad because he's been stressing over things just as much, wanting it to be perfect for both Eleanor and her mother who is very over the top about these things. One time Eleanor even said she was going to uninvite her because she was talking about the colour of Louis' tie and how they should match the flowers, _like the ones in the garden out back, Eleanor, you love tulips don't you?_

"You can't tell me a little rockstar spunk like you hasn't been in at least one relationship while we've been gone! Catch us up on your love life!" She smiles genuinely, it meets her eyes and twinkles like the sequin of her dress and doesn't go unnoticed. Louis coughs "oh please, Harry's getting as much action as the Pope ".

He rolls his eyes but he's not wrong. It's not that Harry doesn't want a relationship, okay maybe he doesn't, buy he just wants to keep his eye on what's happening right now-and his music feels like it's really starting to kick off.

"Louis told me about your job at the bakery-your boss is a real prick" she swiftly adjusts the topic when Harry tip toes around the dating scheme, saying he _wants to focus on music right now_ and worry about who he's sleeping with tomorrow which she smiles at. He hates for people to feel bad for him, so he just laughs it off, not wanting to reveal he's actually not getting by that fine at the moment because he just knows the two of them will insist on him either moving into their place or for them to 'loan' (but really just give) him a sum of cash-which they need now if they want to be starting their family soon (he's heard a few bickering stories between the two and mentions of their mothers waiting for a baby).

"I do have a friend, she works at a record store nearby and I know they need some extra staff right now if you want to take it up" . He's not very fond of it, having people trying to help him, but he knows he needs it, so he promises to keep it in mind. So Eleanor is sipping on white sparkling wine (only her second glass) and Louis is walking the slowly bending line that is between tipsy and drunk, whilst Harry takes another small swig of Coke, when the familiar man comes around the corner with Eddie behind. Harry probably visibly lights up because he can feel himself popping off like a child on Christmas, and not only because he loves (not admittedly) to spend time with Zayn but, because he feels the awkward small talk is beating borderline unbearable.

Zayn nods a hello to Eleanor who is deeper in the booth to Louis who sits on the outside whilst introducing himself and she greets back with her signature pearly smile. Louis shakes his hand, firm, pulling away before Zayn is looking down to Harry and puts a hand to his shoulder before leaning down until they are at the same level, he whispers into his ear quiet, but not too quiet Harry can't hear, "you look good" and he's moving across to give him space to sit.

Louis is constantly asking Zayn questions, stupid ones, like _what size shoe are you, you look like you have big feet, and, are you allowed to root the hookers here because you own-_ before Eleanor punches him to get him to be quiet. Zayn humours him, they compare shoe sizes and Louis grumbles over Zayn having bigger feet than him, and then Zayn's hand falls from the head rest behind Harry before it's on his waist and Harry's breath restricts. "I don't sleep around" of course he doesn't, he has too much class for that, and Louis goes back to rambling over the soccer while Eleanor looks to Harry with that look that says _oh, is that so Styles?_ Because she must know, she has to be seeing what Zayn is doing to Harry right now.

It's all friendly banter from there, Zayn's hand occasionally drifts over to Harry's shirt, Harry's hip, Harry's back, Harry's thigh, like he knows what he's doing from the way he stiffens in his grasp each time or his breath gets caught in a _huh_ sound at the back of his throat. Eleanor glances at her phone at eleven and grabs Louis by his shoulder "oh god I forgot we are meeting my damn mother tomorrow morning, then we've got the appointment with the florist" she curses herself and thanks Zayn for his company, Louis thanking him for the drinks more importantly as they all get up.

Someone comes to clear the table and Harry gets up to follow. "we will get a cab" Eleanor looks to Louis who is buzzing right now and holding him up no doubt from falling. They all go out toward the street and Zayn stops Harry as they walk behind Eleanor and Louis who are talking over how much Louis loves her and wants to marry her before she laughs _okay you gotta promise you will do that ._ "when the cab pulls up you aren't getting in, I want you to tell them you are coming back with me, Eddie will be out the front any minute" he lets go of his waist before he's walking off and Harry's biting his lip to keep himself from smiling? He feels stupid like a giddy school girl as he catches up to the couple.


	10. unhinged

𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩, 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘹

-

Zayn doesn't ride with Harry, leaving him a little disheartened if he is honest, because from the way Zayn acted all night and the constant touching like he was trying to tease him or stop himself from going any further made him realise he craved more of it. He wanted Zayn's hand to not just slide over his waist but _pull it_ _in_ , to hold his hand not just brush over it, and he knows he's sounding ridiculous right now but Zayn just makes him- _unhinged_.

By the time Eddie pulls up and Harry offers him his thanks before getting out, he can already tell Zayn's inside. That's all it takes, all he has to do is simply knock on the door and it's just that easy but for some unbeknown reason he feels the need to crawl back into the backseat of the car and go home. He wants Zayn, and that's the thing, he will let Zayn get him _drunk_ with the mumble of a _sentence_ and he will get _high_ for him, he'll fold over at _every_ request, and it scares him because he doesn't feel as though he can control himself.

His feet propel him forward though, and he would just laugh at himself because he's only proving his point, but he's really nervous because it's as though Zayn is waiting for him and the door is opening with a hushed gush of air that hits Harry in the chest and blows the air right out of him-or maybe it's just his nerves.

"I have something for you" Zayn closes the door and Harry walks through the hall as though he's been here a million times before and it's just become routine. His head perks over his shoulder to look back at Zayn and he nods before he's being beckoned to the living room couch where there sits a box with a yellow ribbon. It's a wave of déjà vu as he falls into the stiff cushioning which he forgets about and winces when he falls too hard "what's this?" He feels inclined to say something, because up until this point he's been dead silent, which isn't very polite, and it's also better than nothing as his body screams at him to just _say something. Don't make a fool of yourself._

"Open it" he's standing at the foot of the couch with a glass in hand, the smell making Harry feel almost sick as a wave of nostalgia rushes in before he's pulling the gift into his lap and gently tugging off the ribbon.

Pushing back the tissue that sits over it, it's a classic grey but littered with sparkles woven into its material. You could probably compare it to an ashy star filled sky, it's made to stand out, and he could imagine the tailor cursing under his breath as he spends hours over this piece. _stupid sequins._ Its edgy, but pristine, a black ruffled cotton/polyester blend of a shirt tucked beneath the jacket and matching pants. The shirt alone made him tint, its ruffles that fell on either side of the collar until they met halfway down, leaving a fraction of the chest on display "Zayn-"

It's like he already knew of his protests before they even formed into words and he interrupted "it's an option-though I would like to see it tomorrow" and it sounds so shameless coming from him, like he doesn't know, which Harry is sure he _does_.

"But how am I supposed to take this stuff when I have nothing for you?" He feels his voice being muffled, soaked in guilt and shyness, it's too much.

"Okay then, I have a proposition" Zayn suggests and Harry places the box back down before listening intently "go on" yes he's nervous, how couldn't he be? With the way Zayn is looking at him right now-like he's evaluating every little detail of his face.

"let me take you out to dinner this Saturday" With those words alone Harry wants to melt through the fabric of his clothes, down the sides of cushions on the couch and through the cracks of the floor, because that's better than the stuttering red mess he's in "I-If you-" he swallows to hopefully gain a little more control "yeah if you want" but there's a little squeak when he opens his mouth.

"Good" his hand pushes back a fallen curl on Harry's gushing red face and he's staring at him, evaluating him again, making him feel self conscious.

"What's the matter love? You don't like that? You weren't that shy when I was touching you at the club this way" It's a tease, he knows how he makes Harry so nervous with a simple touch because it feels _different_ to him.

His hand traces down his face and Harry is well aware it hasn't yet left the close proximity of his skin, following the line of his jaw and vein in his neck that he feels pulsating from the touch. Zayn chuckles because he must feel how rapid his heart is beating "nervous? Or excited?" They contrast but could go both ways, the similar reaction and the irony of it all, and Harry's stumbling over his words unable to respond because he can't decipher one from the other but tilts his neck as though asking for Zayn to come closer and he doesn't even realise-glad because he knows he would be ashamed of himself.

"When was the last time somebody touched you?" His breath hot against Harry's neck, melting the words trying to form in his throat as he opens his mouth and all that's left is a gasp of air. _Months. Please._ He can feel the scratch of his lips to his skin, leaving a burning feeling but this is ridiculous-all he's doing is talking.

His hands race for his legs to keep them from bouncing as he can feel himself shake, its pathetic, and he can feel Zayn's breath turn rugged at the laugh emitting from him as he kisses him in the crook of his neck tracing up.

_One's soft. Gentle. like Harry might as well explode at the contact. But needs more._

_One wet. His hands shaking as he presses his legs together and sighs, his breath just as trembly._

_And hungry. Biting down on him and making his porcelain skin a shade of dark red as he laps his tongue over it, making Harry_ **_moan_ ** _._

"Keep that in mind for when I come and pick you up on Saturday" he pulls away and Harry lifts a hand to his skin as though to check if that actually just happened, and the wetness of it makes him believe so.

"T-That's it?" He doesn't mean to sound so needy but just as he said- _unhinged_.

"Eddie buzzed me, he's out the front waiting to pick you up and take you home" he laughed, brushing a hand trough his hair oh so professional it makes Harry stare. _But what if I don't want to go. What happens if I stay? Does this go further?_ All questions he wants to ask, but he keeps quiet as he stands and gathers his things. _And what's left of his sanity._ Before Zayn's leading him out and toward his ride, his hand never leaving his back until he slides into the car and Zayn leans down "sorry to make our business meeting cut short, we will pick up from where we left off next time" he looks between Harry and Eddie, making Harry just nod because he doesn't know what else to do or what to say as he holds the forming bruise on his neck as a reminder he's not crazy, that just happened.


	11. fire and rain

-

There's something specific about seventies music that appeals to Harry. His Grandfather talked about his time in the era, the wild parties he would attend dancing till ass crack of dawn, the perky fashion, the culture, but most recognisably the music. One specific thing Harry recalls is the way his grandfather would hear the first few strings of James Arthur's _Fire and Rain_ and he would be up on his feet swinging side to side, and Harry would stare at him both amused and in awe as this wild eighty year old would be swaying like he was the only one in the room. He told Harry about the song, how he remembers stumbling with his friends into a club called _The Monte_ after being kicked out of a theatre and in a haze of nostalgia, his smile would widen like he had just seen the stars for the first in a decade, the night he met his Grandma. They would dance to the song on their third date when Grandpa got a little cheesy and wanted to make a sentimental moment for when he was to ask her to officially go out with him, then they would play it on their wedding night after the guests had stumbled out drunk and the band had gone home and it was no one but them, sharing the empty white but messy room with the cleaners as they came in to do a sweep.

He said it's important to never forget those things, store them in the back of your head when you get lonely and need something to keep you going because you're not sure how it is you got to this point and how you had to give up everything for this one second in time. He said he never regretted grandma, only that he let her down.

Harry remembers the night his Grandpa had come over unexpected and having been woken up to the sound of clutter outside his room. he peaked through the hall to the kitchen where his grandfather stood with his hat in his hand, maybe the saddest look Harry had ever seen a man display honestly and Harry's father on the receiving end shaking his head.

His Grandfather was talking softly, he had been getting weaker by the day and now he struggled to get up when the sound of James Taylor filled the speaker of the record player and instead sat like in prayer. Harry would see and then get up from where he sat, starting to dance just the way he remembers his grandfather doing when he was a bit younger and capable and he would clap along or laugh, tears welling in his eyes as Harry stumbled over his feet every now and then losing balance before composing himself and going on all until the song would end and then Grandpa would wave him over into an embrace.

Harry's father looked angry, terrifyingly angry, and he yelled at the old man as he stood in his place. It was when Harry heard a smash that he jumped, his breath catching as he ran out asking "Grandpa?" Both of the men turned their gaze on him and his dad attempted to grab at him "Harry what are you doing?"

Harry latched himself to the old man instead begging "Grandpa please stay, I can get out the record player, w-we could play a game?"

The look on Harry's dads face that night was something that would stick to him for years. He looked distraught, his cheeks stained with marks that he could only have assumed was from crying, and his fist was held tight like he was trying to hold himself back from breaking.

Harry didn't understand, he couldn't channel any sort of compassion for the man in that moment as the three stood in the kitchen, a smashed glass scattered across the floor, and Harry's father sternly yelling at the old timer to leave. Harry begged him to stay, but he pet his back as he walked to exit, not before kneeling down and putting a hand to his shoulder "Harry" he looked up to where his own son was in the kitchen wiping his face and picking up the smashed glass.

"Your father means well, and I'm sorry I didn't do my best by him in order to do for you but please take care of him" Harry stared in confusion, unaware of the way he defended him and why.

"I love you grandpa" Harry hugged and the man was able, but not the same as he used to, hold him back.

"Now love your father" he asked finally, standing and leaving. Honestly, Harry had thought that would be the last he would ever see of the old weak man, and it scared him so much he sat up awake all night thinking of ways to fix whatever the problem was that he would never know was between the two elders.

When his grandfather finally passed, Harry's own father turned for the worst. Harry would sit up listening to _Fire and Rain_ because it didn't hurt, like his grandfather had said, the memory of someone you love and the way it could come back to you in such a form as a three minute folk rock song as his father paced outside with his mother and they would argue. All until his mother stopped arguing, and his father would grow to leave the woman alone but not before he aimed it at Harry instead. He didn't understand the meaning for his fathers fists of rage, his hatred, but maybe it was really because to him, Harry was an exact copy of his own dad-the one who left him and his broken hearted mother at an early age to tour the streets for days on end until he would forget the sound of the man's voice if it wasn't on radio and he was left to stand for his mother as the man of the house when she fell into a deep depression.

But Harry would never come to know that.


	12. date

-

Tonight's a rare occasion where Eddie isn't here to pick up Harry, and neither is some other driver of Zayn's, who stay very quiet and focused the entire time Harry sits in the back in dead silence.

Zayn shows up to his place at around 8pm downstairs and he shoots Harry a message before the boy is racing down the flights of stairs and toward the red 1964 jaguar e-type roadster which is breathtaking given the sight of Zayn's hand falling out the window and tapping along the metal of the door to a song playing on the radio. He notices Harry walking quickly over and a smirk replaces his bored face, bringing his hand back inside to grasp the steering wheel as Harry falls into the other side and they are off.

The roar of the engine against the sound polluted city is sex and anxiety all in one as Harry can only imagine where they might go and how the night will play out.

When they stop outside a soft looking Italian cuisine restaurant Harry breathes a sigh of relief because Zayn is clearly not trying to impress him based off of the most expensive looking place in the city.

He thinks he goes dark because of the way Zayn opens his door to help him out, even if it wasn't needed, being a gentleman as the two walk to the entrance whilst Zayn keeps his hand on the small of Harry's back.

They are met with a chubby charismatic man who fits the category perfectly for 'Italian chef' as he greets the men, referring to Zayn as 'mister Malik' as though they were old colleagues.

Walking through, they sit at a table toward the back of the mostly empty restaurant for a night like this. Zayn orders himself a bourbon and Harry asks for _just a glass of water_ before they are met with silence. Harry feels nervous because Zayn looks perfect, black tailored suit and his hair styled back with a loose strand that falls over his face that manages to look purposely done-even if not.

"We are staring are we?" Zayn teases, breaking the silence that makes Harry's eyes dart around the room in embarrassment so that he can focus on anything but Zayn.

"Could I ask" Zayn is persistent whenever he makes conversation, which to an extent, Harry isn't so grateful for, and the way his voice sounds so bold right now says he's not _asking_ Harry, as usual, to make conversation. Harry's eyes flicker back to the man, his hand supporting his chin as he looks into the younger boy ahead of him when he opens his mouth "you've never played a song you own" and he's looking at him as if to ask _why is that?_

Harry feels himself sinking, and he wouldn't complain if he was to disappear because just coming off of Zayn, it makes him feel so naked and exposed. No one has ever asked him that before, and it's usually because he assumes no one cares what he plays as long as it can take up a twenty minute set and keep people entertained.

"Well, I don't write...really" the last word comes out almost a whisper because in a sense he cannot lie to this man for his life, like Zayn would _know_ , and he probably would, who is he kidding. Zayn chuckles at that as if finding it oh so amusing, being able to have Harry all nervous and careful as if not to say the wrong thing. That sort of just proves the type of person Harry is; changing his demeanour to suit the person he is talking to because he's a people pleaser and doesn't actually believe anyone would care to hear what the _real_ Harry has to say about anything. Even now, with him, he can tell Harry is only putting up an act, which is what challenges him to be this persistent and to crack open the boy.

"You do too" maybe on napkins when he's sitting in a cafe on a rainy day and he suddenly finds inspiration in the dew drops as they fall on the window and create shapes, or when he's reading an old second hand novel and jots down a few on the flap in the corner, or even subconsciously in the back of his mind whilst riding the tube, because Harry just has _those_ eyes. The eyes that swarm with chaotic clouds and elaborate waves of nonchalance and turmoil all wrapped in pretty bows of green. but if you focus on the way the light falls over them, maybe you'll see golden sparks, or cerulean blue because Harry's eyes aren't just forests of life, they are the rivers that run through and the grey stones that interrupt the currents, splitting through gaps and creating seperate streams because his genuineness seeps into everything he touches and even from being around him you can feel the restless and loud thoughts that flock his brain. All Zayn can Imagine is _my it must be awfully crowded in there_ with all that he holds between his eyes. Why doesn't he want to be heard?

"People don't care for what I have to say" Harry mumbles into his hand, covering his face as he tinges red because he's never been confronted like this before. He was always told to strum soft, in private, sing low, so how would he learn not to carry those habits into adulthood?

"I think you have a lot to say, but you're scared it's not loud enough" and it's enough to make Harry still because Zayn manages to read him like a blurb on the back of a book. Thankfully, their dinner is served to them only moments later and now he has an excuse to be quiet as they eat.

Zayn is oblivious to boundaries however and Harry's not surprised before the man is casually discussing plans tomorrow and taking Harry out yet again.

"Are you sure you aren't getting sick of me?" Harry wonders because no one would stand him for this long. When he was young, before he was old enough to take the hint when someone was disinterested, he would go on for ages to the point his mother had him tested for ADHD. The doctor simply laughed, saying he had nothing more than an imaginative mind because he was only five, not yet conditioned to life. As if it was beyond her why this fresh child would be asking so much about the world, why he was so interested. They would go 'yes Harry' and 'that's nice harry' as he pointed to dinosaurs in the sky and tracked mud through the hall because _he's being chased by a stampede!_ Admittedly, even he wondered how that Harry could think that way, with little care for what people had to say.

"Not just yet" Zayn smirked, a little too openly that left too many questions on Harry's mind as he reached for the cheque to pay for their meal.


	13. the after

-

When Zayn pulls up to the corner where Harry's apartment complex stood tall and rather dull, he couldn't help but think _surely this isn't it?_ Of course it was a lovely date. They chatted, they ate fine dine, Zayn teased him and then paid-but he was expecting maybe just a little more.

So instead of simply getting up and waving goodnight, he does the unimaginable, and he asks Zayn to come up. As soon as it's out he wants to grab at the words and stuff then back into his mouth because Zayn goes momentarily quiet, which manages to feel like years in Harry's eyes, but he cracks a grin and nods "for tea?" In such a cheeky way.

"Yeah, tea" Harry nods along, getting out of the car which he actually begins to worry for given its bright beautiful sight in such a neighbourhood he's worried it may get stolen.

They walk up and Harry is grateful he didn't leave the apartment a mess before leaving tonight as he shoves his key into the lock, making sure to shake twice as he leans right because it's got a bit of a kink like that.

"Feel free to make yourself at home-I guess" he throws his key into the empty fruit bowl that sits at the door, aside from the few pennies and bits of random shit that accompanied them. He then toes off his shoes and sighs as he takes the few steps he needs to get into the kitchen and starts up the pot before he's reaching up into the top cabinet.

He can feel Zayn's eyes searching the apartment, like he's trying to read it just the same as he does Harry and figure out each and every crack.

"Um, I've got camomile or green" Harry pouts at his little stash, reminding himself he needs to get more bags before he's pulling them down. Zayn is snooping through his small collection of records by the television and when Harry hears the small blip of the player as it begins and Harry Nilsson fills the speaker.

_Early in the morning and I can't do right..._

He's focused on the pot as it finally comes to a boil and pulls out two mugs to pour the tea into, and doesn't at all expect Zayn's sudden close proximity as his arms snake around his waste to grab hold of his belt buckle. He's swaying to the music and it's all so alluring as his fingers toy at the metal piece and his crotch presses against Harry's ass, his breath tickling his neck in a state of pure tranquility whilst Harry's falls rugged and he drops the tea bag.

Then, Zayn's lips, soft as they part and leave wet trails up Harry's neck but he doesn't bite-which leaves Harry pursing his own because he knows Zayn's only teasing him at this point just like always.

It settles in his stomach, and he gives up on the tea because he'd rather taste _Zayn_ as he turns to face him and allows his hands to cup at his cheeks. They feel so soft, which takes Harry off guard given Zayn's hard exterior, and he leans into their warmth whilst his own hands fall to the latters hips.

"please-" he breathes into Zayn's mouth and he hums in response, making Harry's chest warm. Zayn wants him to speak, he knows what Harry wants but he's daring him to _ask for it._

"Y-You" Harry mutters. Zayn parts with him momentarily, the pad of his thumb stroking Harry's cheek and he can see the words edging on his lips as they quiver from loss of contact "tell me what you want" he presses, gently.

"You to-to-" he bites his lip as he sucks in a breath, Zayn's tongue lapping over his neck where he's planting small bites "fuck me" it's finally out, and as soon as the words hit the air Zayn pulls him back.

Harry's pointing lazily down the hall as if to gesture to the bedroom and Zayn just wings it-perfectly of course-dragging Harry skilfully across the apartment as they undress one another messily.

By the time they reach the room, both are practically naked as Zayn finally releases his hold on Harry's face allowing him to fall to the mattress and he points at the drawer on his bedside which Zayn takes the hint of.

He's never folded like this before, no sense of self control as he's reaching and tugging to get closer and all he wants is to touch every centimetre of Zayn with his lips. He's gentle, something you don't expect from the aura he emanates. He's rough around the edges but once you're secluded, he's secretly soft and passionate, hand tracing Harry's naked thigh and pulling them to his own hips.

He wants this so bad, he feels he's not been touched this way in years and the sudden rush of nostalgia is flooding him out, overwhelming him in a sense he feels he's burning. So much so, that he simply unfolds before him, and the man doesn't even need to ask before he's parting himself and opening for him like it's his job.

Yes, Harry's has some questionable sex partners in the past. He's no slut, but he's had a few in high school and he doesn't really want to think about that when he's saying this wasn't what he was expecting. His attention is all on him, his eyes aren't lingering around as though he's ready to run if someone comes in, they bore into his own so much Harry thinks he can see himself back through them.

He isn't groaning like a fucking animal, trying to quickly scoff down a meal, and he's not covering Harry's face with a hand so harsh that he fails to breathe, and he's not cruelly pushing so hard he hits his head against the backboard of the bed repeatedly. He takes his time, opening him up with two digits as Harry instinctively rocks his hips because he needs it, needs more, needs Zayn to make him feel it for days after. Zayn sucks gently at his jaw, hand working to part him as his other is wrapped around Harry and he feels he's about to implode when he grabs at his wrist and begs "come on" in a precious whine that Zayn swallows before hes talking. and then harry realises hes _talking_ , and suddenly hes watching his lips to take his order "get the condom out of my wallet" because its just off of his head, and hes delicate but swift to pick it up and course through the interior of the small leather thing, taking it out, using the slick already evident on Zayn to wrap it around him. Zayn just about shudders at the feeling of Harry's slim fingers around his dick, and Harry falters at the thought before Zayn is leaning over him again and asking him if he's got lube. Theres some in the bottom drawer, and Zayn, for once, doesnt look ever so elegant- _which makes him even more elegant and **real**_ \- as he tears into the drawer and pulls it out. 

Zayn isnt like the other guys because he's _Zayn_. he shadows his tip over Harry's hole to tease him, and grunts like a fucking _god_ when he slips in. Harry is vibrating at the mere feeling of him filling him and stretching him out before hes beginning to rock his hips at an agonizingly slow pace. Zayn watches him to the point he wants to shy away and hide, because he wants to see the o's and the ah's contorting across the fine lines of Harry's gentle baby face, the way hes falling apart at the feeling of Zayn on his wrist, presssing against his hard pulsating dick thats full and leaking between them, of his hips, pushing, pushing, pushing him to the edge. When he thrusts in, Harry gasps, and Zayn almost pauses when he sees how fucked out of his head Harry is right now because he's needed this, for so long, craved it. "did that feel good?" he cant help but be cocky of course, and Harry just nods frantically "right there" before Zayn tests him, hits his spot again, making him moan his name. Zayn. Zayn. Zayn. he pushes in, harder, abusing that sweet spot and pushing Harry all the way over until hes pouring between their chests, slick hot drops soaking them both before Zayn is following suit. If he wasn't careful he'd almost mistake this for love, when he falls to his side and they both lay staring up at the ceiling and catching their breaths.

At this point, Harry isn't quite sure what to do as he comes back to his usual soft pace of breath. Even more than that, Zayn is in his bed, and it's not that he wants to kick him out by his hind but he wishes he would make a move to saying something-either that or just disappear in thin air because of how unbearably awkward it's starting to become in his own head.

"Can I use your shower?" He pulls him from his thoughts, and if he's totally honest, having Zayn leaning over him perched on his left elbow, it's so much that he dares not to look at him "um-yeah-of course" it's not the first words you'd want to hear coming from the person who just missionary fucked you like a proper lover, but he's not sure what he was expecting.

So Zayn just gets up, and goes to shower, like nothing happened at all. When he comes back in, he's dressed back up and it's like he was never naked to begin with "ill see you tomorrow then" he simply waves, leaving Harry there starstruck and naked under the sheets.


	14. dreams of past tense

_you will never be unloved by me,_  
 _you are too well tangled in my soul._  
♤

Harry presses his palm to the empty side of the bed whilst he lies there on his stomach in nothing more than his briefs-given how cold it is as winter thickens and he is reminded of the broken radiator and how he still needs to get that fixed. if he tries, he can almost see the reminicents of Zayn's being. the way the sheets pool around the body and create ripples, and if he closes his eyes, he doesnt feel so alone.

Theres a knock at the door, however, that tears him out of the chances of going back to sleep and for a second his heart begins racing at the chance that it could be Zayn, and he's gotten him breakfast, or a coffee, or even the newspaper, taking that as a good enough reason to come back.

to his luck, when he swings open the door its the little old lady from two apartments down and he tugs together his best smile as he pats down his hair "good morning Audrey" he can't help but make it seem a little too nice to the point it sounds sarcastic because hes borderline groaning at the fact its not who he hoped it to be. the woman picks up her cat, Harley, and practically shoves the orange feline into Harry's face as it stares at him like hes nothing more than a piece of dust and it's bored "we are out of milk! Stacey was meant to get us milk!" she worries, making Harry sigh.

Audrey lived a fulfilling life, just like many who came here, she starred in a few hollywood movies back in the forties. she was a beautiful, charismatic, groomed girl and thats what they all wanted for their screens and she was a hit. then there was an accident on set one day which consisted of a car and a man who had one too many swigs of his flask leading to the loss of her leg. they deemed her not fit to play because who was a sexy woman without the sexy legs to caress and tease? she settled down with her cats instead and as she became more and more forgotten, she started to forget too. it was small things: the keys to the car, the grocery list, then it was what day of the week it was, and how it was her daughters (who she had to wrack her brain to remember) birthday and she forgot to attend.

her caretaker Stacey was nice-enough- but Harry always knew she tended to be a little naive. he couldnt blame her: throwing away all your hopes and dreams of hollywood and landing in caretaking for elderly who forgot to turn the stove off that morning. it seemed bitter, but he was always silently there if Audrey needed-which he wouldnt bother telling her because chances are she'd forget that too. he handed her the last of his milk whilst Leroy stares in jealousy, leaning down to let her kiss his cheek because shes too short to reach, and she turns to walk away.

even better, when he thought at least now he can go wallow in his loneliness in bed all day, Louis is waltzing through the corridoor and giving Audrey a rather colourful grimace when she shoves Harley in his face like a trophy. he looks from her to Harry in disgust, never really being much of a fan of cats 'when dogs exist' but Harry argues they are smart, easy, and independent. its almost like having another person existing in his apartment and making him less solus because he can hear him around sometimes, and he leaves little messes that Harry cleans and groans wishing he could do it himself for once.

"how did you even get in?" was the first thing to come out of Harry.

"told this lady I was checking in on my disabled brother, making sure he didn't get his dick stuck in the toaster again" Louis invites himself into the apartment, not wasting much of a moment before scavenging through the cupboard to pull out some ingredients and bread. He can't say he's not used to it, closing the door behind his rude friend before defending "thanks, like I needed my creepy annoying neighbours to think that of me"

"How could I taint your reputation when you don't have one?" Louis licks the peanut butter residue from the knife as he drops it into the sink and takes to the couch "what's wrong with you?" It's like as soon as he catches a glimpse of his friend, he already knows somethings up, and Harry groans because no matter how much of a dickhead the guy is, he's a damn good observant one.

"Nothing, I'm fine" Harry quite literally falls and sinks into the couch with a sigh that could blow down buildings, to which Louis scoffs "is this about that sexy boss man of yours?"

Pretending he didn't just see the peanut butter and jelly mixture in Louis' mouth come to life, Harry shakes his head "it's nothing" which comes out as more a plea for him to just let it go, leave and allow him to go back to bed and close the shutters, pretend he doesn't have to exist for a moment.

Louis' face falters, swallowing loudly as he examines his friend now who _isn't_ up for playing jokes, and Harry is sometimes grateful for the versatility of the boy. Yeah he's a prick, he jokes around and acts like a child, but he also knows when to let Harry curl up to him, rest his head against his shoulder and whine about it all.

"okay, we don't have to talk" He presses a palm to the top of the boys head, and he feels so small, like a little boy again, and he's just watched his grandpa walk out and his dad is standing off to the side with his head in his hands _you just never listen._

He doesn't, listen, and on any given day Louis will scold him for being so pessimistic and preach _life is more than our bad days, Haz,_ but today he just shuts up and let's him have his moment. Maybe he'll come back early tomorrow morning and kick him out of bed, tell him it's time to be productive and get on with it, only now he'll sit and remind him that _people aren't all like that, sometimes they have their own shit,_ and Harry feels like an absolute dickhead for letting someone make him feel so _wanted_ and _important_ only for a shag and ditch.

He doesn't tell Louis that though, he just tells him that he's _having a bad day_ and the lad doesn't pester, doesn't wait for him to get it off his chest, just sits with him until he's fallen into a dreamless sleep right there on the couch with Leroy perched up on his lap and Louis combing his hands through his hair.


	15. this is how we go on

𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.  
♤

Harry has two days, that's all he gives himself, two days of lying around and not changing his clothes, or getting up to shower, or even eat, aside from when Louis or El come and check on him because Louis _knows_ he can be like that and all you can do is stand around and hope that it takes less time than last to get him back on his toes again.

He takes two days because he doesn't have the luxury of lying around and being sad when he needs to pay those fucking mountaining bills and Leroy's food is slowly being used up.

Taking El up on her offer, he calls into the record store surprisingly not far from The Lucozade that he figures might turn easier for him when he's rushing between shifts and not having to take the tube after they just about hand him the job right there on the spot. _Marcus_ , a tall, teddy bear-like boy that interviews him actually asks for his number afterward and before Harry assumes it's just for the job, he makes effort to point that he'd _love_ _to_ _catch up and talk sometime, maybe get a drink? dinner?_ which Harry wants to decline, because he can't be thinking about boys right now, but then he looks over Marcus once more-his teeth that shine white, his soft hands that offer him a shake, his clean cut face, he seems so untouched, he's not a bad boy-and maybe Harry reminds himself that this is the type of guy he should go for (for once) so he accepts the number.

Then he goes to work, telling himself that he's not going to see Zayn, he's not going to even give him the satisfaction of knowing he's crawling back because it's _not_ for him. He walks toward the familiar towering club, coming to terms that as much as he'd want to, that he can't burn up the nice space grey suit because he needs to look like an _adult_ , not the naive kid that everyone thinks he is.

His set starts at eight, he stands up to the mic and he doesn't even give himself a second to search the bar for lingering eyes as he begins to strum at the instrument in his hands. Time moves like a motorbike through the night, swiftly with precision until he's not even realised the strong pace that he's worked up, allowing the vibrations to show ripples in glasses, shudder against bones, like it _wants_ to be heard this time.

_Girl, you got this need to know what I'm about_   
_There's something that you dig, you can't figure out_   
_Well, now you wanna know what moves my soul_   
_And what ticks inside my brain_

The sounds of Paul Revere & the Raiders fills the room, and he opens his mouth wider than before, let's his voice shake as he comes to a close and he breathes out a heavy sigh of air like he wasn't able to breathe the entire three minutes he stood there strumming and singing, his fingers starting to ache with how hard he brushes up and down on the strings.

His eyes open and it's foggy for a moment before he can _see_ the eyes of people who crowd around the bar and perch in booths. They are _watching_ and they are _listening_ and he thinks for a god damn minute , _this is it,_ before the microphone squeaks and the sound of his shoes echoe as he steps off behind the curtain and the cheering seems to ring through his ears even then.

"Harry" a hand catches him just when he's about ready to storm out and just go home like he had planned on, and of _course_ it's Zayn-the man himself. The first thing he wants to say is probably a very colourful slur of words, maybe top it off with a slap because he didn't think seeing this stupid _masculine_ man would stir so much resentment in his gut as he looks at him and can't even compare this hurt to that of the splinters he picked out of his cheek after being held against a beam as he was fucked by a jock and then they reminded him they were straight, because at least then-they never promised him anything. it's so much more.

"you didn't respond to any of my calls" and now _Zayn_ looks mad, like he deserves to be the one who's hurt, and maybe even for a second Harry almost caves in and asks for his forgiveness, but this pit in his stomach tastes of gin and disgust as he points a finger "you _left_ ".

He looks taken aback, blinking with a blank face at the fuming boy ready to throw a fit and stomp his feet around like a child who didn't get what they wanted for christmas, and his head hangs to the side like he's trying to figure out _why_ which only makes Harry _angrier._

"you just left" Harry repeats, more weakly this time, as his hands fall to his sides and his body loses all the hostility he could muster up, because it's all he could fathom in that moment-not how much it _hurt_ to wake up and have it all be true, but to share such an intimate part of himself with someone who made him feel like _this time it would be different_ , like someone could make him _feel like he meant something_ this time, and for him to be just as naive and stupid as to _let that happen_ again.

"why does it matter?" Zayn squints, like he's trying to find reason behind the boys precious glossed eyes.

"I guess it doesn't then" Harry concludes, more for himself than for Zayn, because he supposes he'll need it as a reminder not to let himself get in too over his head for yet another bad boy.

The latter rolls his eyes at the flamboyantly unpleasantry in the boys tone, the way he won't meet his eyes now because if Harry's honest, he's sure he'll start to cry if he does, and he doesn't want to give Zayn the privilege of seeing him that low. Zayn would probably say next to _cool down_ , _get over it_ , in true soldier fashion, so with all the strength he can muster to pull himself out of the firing line, he gives a bland "goodnight, Zayn" as if he's just tired and can't bring himself to argue.

"let me get you a ride" Of course even then he's being practical, still giving Harry some fibre of hope that maybe _he does care_ and that what they have means more than just a fuck. He thinks he has to make a point now, and in doing so he shakes his head with a low "no, i'll get a cab" and finds his legs forcing him out the door before the older boy can protest or offer to pay.

On his way out though, to his irredeemable luck of course, he's stopped by a man with slicked back hair and a nice girl on his side that smiles bright and tall, just like the bar girls who hung onto men's arms and sweet talked their ears off while they slipped a hand into their coat and stole their wallet.

"Harry Styles, correct?" He smiles, his gold tooth sticking out like a sore thumb under the fluorescent lighting, and Harry thinks for a second he's about to be offered some sketchy sex deal and just about walks right off with a _not interested_ being he's so god damn tired he doesn't think his feet will last the walk to the station because if he's honest he _can't_ afford a cab, and he's being too stubborn to let Zayn give him anything.

"My name is Mike Colluse, a representative of Daimond Studio's-i heard your set, and considering you work in such a place, my interpretation is that you aren't yet owned" first he's gobsmacked, confused by the words coming out of the man because _is he saying I'm good?_ He's been told that of course, people have found interest in him, people like Zayn who offer enough of their time into letting him play a set in a musty bar or club, but he's never been told he's _valuable_ in that sense.

"take my card-i would like to get in contact and arrange a meeting" He offers a quaint smile, his dimples perked and his gold tooth shining even brighter, and Harry almost rolls over then and there at what just happened.

It's enough to get his legs moving, just about bouncing off the walls as he pockets the note and walks himself to the station before walking the extra bit home. He almost finds himself calling up Eleanor and Lou despite how busy of a day they would have had and are probably well and truly passed out, or knocking on Audrey's door just to share the news with someone, even if she manages to forget right after, and he dances along to the little shimmy Leroy does toward the door as he pools in with his coat and bag falling to the floor, making the cat jump out of the way as he starts to go on "Leroy! Imagine all the food! You'll be drowning!"

It's also enough to get him to forget about Zayn for the night when he usually finds the sheets extra cold, the night extra long, the moon extra taunting as he lies there in the silence of isolation and texts Marcus, the good guy, saying that he'd love to get dinner tomorrow night.

This is how he goes on.


	16. sirens

𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶  
♤

Harry likes Marcus, likes the way he always surprises him with a decaf when he comes into work early mornings, likes the way he always knows what to say when he's looking certainly rough some mornings from lack of sleep or long nights because as much as he loves being able to splurge the excess money he is now getting on toys for leroy, experimenting on various treats from the pet isle, it's really tiring working both jobs back to back.

He likes Marcus because he doesn't keep secrets, and he gives it to him straight, telling him when he's overreacting about how he thinks he'll die because he's getting less sleep, starting to think he's an insomniac which just makes the latter laugh and pull him in by his hips, a hushed "don't be silly" as he kisses him gently, and Harry has to remind himself he's actually allowed to indulge in the attention, despite it feeling certainly off.

"you are allowed to kiss me" Marcus laughs, because he just doesn't ever seem to get angry, reminding Harry he's doing it again, not knowing how or when to open up or ever be the first. One night he shamefully starts to think Marcus is growing tired of him, getting suspicious because Harry's just sitting there on the other side of the couch flipping through channels like he's got the flu or something.

So he cradles up to his side, making Marcus rub the sleep from his eyes as he smiles "what's up?"

Harry doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to give it straight to him with the _i don't really know how to do this, you have to be patient, i'm trying_ and instead cups his jaw between his hands and kisses him. He lets Marcus fuck him on the couch, because he thinks that's what he wanted, and he realises after only two weeks, he's getting scared of being left alone again.

alone means he has to think about Zayn, _oh god, here he is now doing just that._ The way he hasn't talked to him in a week, hardly even seen him at work, but he can always feel his eyes on him as he's performing. or maybe that's what he hopes. The thing is, he really likes Marcus, so much so that he has created this dull laid back guy in his head he's painted as _fun harry,_ more importantly, _dateable Harry_ , so that he doesn't lose interest, and that's what makes Harry even more tired because on top of working two jobs now, he's picked up an acting job just about 24/7. 

"you told me tonight" Marcus whined from the couch, Leroy perched on his lap purring gently as he carded a hand through his malting fur. Harry pulls up his bag, his guitar in tow as he shrugs "yeah i know, but maybe next time" promising him _it's just a short set, and you have work tomorrow, it's too much of a hassle to get all the way over there and back_ almost perfectly to the point he's convinced himself _that's it_ and it's not the fact he's not ready to open up that part of himself to him just yet. "go home, Marcus" he smiles sadly and out of guilt for the poor guy who's trying his hardest to break through like a plastic spade to a brick wall.

He gets to work, plays his set, yawning to himself as he gets off stage and realises his voice has gone scratchy, that he's so tired from overdoing himself when he says goodnight to Sara who's on next that he just about caves in.

so he sits, he just plants his ass down on the scrawny couch that looks more for show than to get a use out of because it's overwhelming. he sits there for at least ten minutes, head in hands, and no one touches or even looks at him. he hears the familiar deep tone of a voice soon after, his head picking itself up on queue as Zayn walks through in his nice suit and pushed back hair "Gus, i need you to get down to the main door and work out this stupid brawl, two drunks, you know" he sighs like he's tired, walking right passed Harry and ordering the tall man who rolls his eyes and carries through. Harry feels like a ghost, like he's an old dusty portrait on a wall behind the bar that dozens pass by daily without so much a nod in the direction of, forgotten and left stray to catch dust.

"oh" Zayn's eyes are now on him, Harry realising he was staring now, narrowing in on his figure like he hasn't seen the boy in years. "i thought you left" he says next, sounding rather bitter as he hones in on him, taking in Harry's look like he's trying to figure out _what's wrong_ with the picture he's looking at.

Then it dawns on Harry, that Zayn was _avoiding_ him. That he specifically waited ten minutes after Harry's set, when he was sure he would be packed and out the door, to come down from his office and ask for Gus. It boils something like anger, or more like hurt, in Harry as he glares back "no" softly.

Zayn nods, rubbing his hands on his pants like he's trying to think it through, looking up to the door like he's contemplating making a run for it, and Harry's starting to think that if he doesn't then _he_ will.

"come with me" He speaks up, taking Harry by surprise now, and despite him being so fucking tired and weirded by the others presence, he follows after him like an addict to a needle, untouched and two weeks sober as his skin crawls in the direction of what he needs. They stalk upstairs, in the way Harry knows they are going to his office, and Zayn tells him to sit as he makes a call in the next room. Harry sits, long enough to make a conscious decision to either stay or do the right thing by going home and getting some sleep, forgetting about daydreams of calloused hands and hard liquor.

of course, he doesn't, letting Zayn's hand guide him back down and out to the car. Ed isn't there, just the two of them, Zayn opening the door for Harry and letting him sink into the leather of the seat before he does the same.

Harry thinks to himself, _what the fuck am i doing_ , when Zayn starts the engine and places his hand on Harry's thigh like he's tying him down. Harry almost laughs to himself because _you don't need to harbour me when I coarse through raging tides and crash against rocks just to near your blinding light._ He'll ruin himself, break the normal life he's tried ever so hard to achieve in the last two tiring weeks, just at a few words.

They pull up to the familiar house, the lights are off, standing unusual to the other structures that stand proud and tall neighbouring his own. They all want to be seen, want people to gawk at their walls and into their windows to catch a glimpse of their upper class living, to dream and wonder _that could be me_.

They sneak up the bricked entrance, like it's a secret between just them, reaching the door and Harry's starting to think he's in way over his head as Zayn fumbles between fishing out his key and pushing him up against the door, lips searching through the dark hungrily and lazily, Harry's hands reaching up into Zayn's hair because he wants to ruin his perfect demeanour, wants to mush him up and dirty him, so that they can both be as despicable as the other and he won't feel so alone.

they fall through in a heap, Zayn being able to drag Harry through the entrance effortlessly as Harry moans "c'mon, please" because he feels he's been starving for years, like he's chasing a high, greedily tugging at the edges of his jacket to pull it off, readying his needle.

"how bad do you want it" Zayn huffs into his ear, the vibrations rattling through Harry's bones and melting him like caramel, losing his footing as his back hits the cold marble of a bench and he moans at the contact.

"so bad" he whines as Zayn backs him up, turning him around and pushing him forward so that his stomach hits the island and his hands balance himself on its surface.

"fuck-i can't get enough of you" Zayn growls, making Harry flush at the thought of Zayn getting all ruined over him, wanting so badly to push him over and fuck into him like Harry's not the only one, two addicts fixated on the movements of one another, fiddling in the pitch black of the kitchen in a heap of breaths and frantic hands "you can take it" Zayn reassures when Harry's hips roll at the feeling of Zayn's growth against his covered ass.

Harry wants to please him, will do whatever the fuck Zayn wants, down to drinking or smoking, so he nods into the latters tight fist in his hair as he smirks "good boy". He fumbles with his belt, tearing down his pants and exposing him as he breathes out "please-just fuck me".

He's just as restless, so doesn't take more than a few seconds to pull down his own trousers and get himself up, lining up his already leaking head under Harry's hole. the boy sucks in a strained breath behind closed teeth as he tries not to rut against him, knowing that all he has to do is lean back, but also being a stupid little pup that wants nothing more than to be ordered around because that's how he works, in being told what he wants and how he wants it.

Zayn steps back, making Harry whimper at the cold air biting at his skin and he goes to stand and ask _what's wrong, what did i do?_ before Zayn is hushing him, flicking on the light and allowing it to fill the room "wanted to watch you" his palm comes around Harry's side and rests on the counter as he nears again, pushing Harry down against the cold top that sends chills through his body. he can see Zayn standing behind him through the reflection on the oven, the way his eyes catch his and never leave as he pushes into his hole, making him wince because he didn't give him time to prep.

"that's it, good boy, take daddy's length" he purs into his ear, licking at his shell as Harry cries out in pain, arousing himself even more as he leans forward until his cheek is resting against the cold stone of the bench and he can see the way Zayn's hand rocks beside him as he pumps in and out.

he closes his eyes, fixated by the sting it leaves, grunting as the Zayn penetrates his hole in streams of "fuck, that's it, good boy".

He feels drunk, at his highest, his lips parting and eyebrows knitting, he swears he sees double, his own throbbing dick pressing against the counter and making his legs weak.

"be loud, wanna hear you" Zayn encourages, his words coming out rigid as he thrusts deeper into him, feeling the way Harry stirs under him when he hits a certain spot that makes him nod "harder, there" he repeats, a string of slurs coming out next when Zayn zones in on his prostate, rolling his hips, and Harry's reaching for his own release.

"watch me baby, eyes on me" Zayn pulls at his hair so that he's looking at him through the reflection of the oven, himself a hot mess as Zayn pushes in deeper and deeper and _oh fuck._

He's shaking, his knees just about caving in, and falling against the tile as he forces himself up "was i good?" he begs, because he needs Zayn to say something now that isn't _go home_ , or _I'll see you tomorrow_ before pushing him out the door.

Zayn turns him over, pushing back his fallen hair as he nods "yes, baby, you did good" and he feels suddenly warm and satisfied with the pet name, watching as Zayn takes in his mess of an appearance "you can sleep down the hall, there's a guest room" he points and Harry doesn't so much frown but sinks a little because he's _not_ being dismissed, but he's not being told to _get comfortable_ , just like Zayn takes him as a responsibility or a chore now.

"clean yourself up in the bathroom, theres shirts in there to sleep in" he orders, pushing back a fallen strand of hair and turning to head off to bed upstairs and on the opposite side of the house.


	17. foreplay

𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬,  
𝘪 𝘢𝘮 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥   
𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘪 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯   
𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘹𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶  
♤

Harry yawns and spreads his limbs, the way his spine cracks satisfying him as he forces himself up. He's not sure how early it is, the curtains being closed, without a peak of light managing through and no sounds of movement from where he is. that leads him to believe that Zayn is probably still asleep, or maybe not even here at all, as he reaches for his clothes and starts for the door which opens to a hall, it has to be at least nine with the way the sun pokes through the skylight which leaves him freaking out because that could only mean he's late for work.

"calm down-sit" Zayn pulls him out of his stir as he trudges toward the door, catching him from the kitchen where he's standing over the bench with a glass in hand expectedly.

"i have work" Harry excuses, feeling weird because Zayn is here, and he can smell eggs, and he's not sure if he's dreaming or not.

"i called you in sick, who's Marcus?" he flips what looks to be an omelette in the pan he's working with, motioning yet again for Harry to _sit_ with more of a stern look now.

"He's-well-he's my _friend_ " if he's honest he doesn't know what to call him, and it wasn't until now that he was made aware. Of course to Marcus, they are probably _married,_ but Harry's not so sure where he stands. even more, he's scared to admit that to Zayn who doesn't look too happy as he grumbles "he thinks you're his boyfriend-you might want to let him know" menacingly almost.

Harry sinks into the seat in front of the island, memories of last nights events pooling into his head and flooding his cheeks a blood red as he forces himself to look back to his phone on the marble bench with no messages to reply to. "how'd you even get my phone" he pockets the device and tries his best to scowl as he accepts the glass of orange juice from Zayn who's setting up a plate.

"your pants" He says simply, like it was _obvious_ , because _where else_?

"what-in my room?" he's sure he's gone a darker tinge of red now, feeling so vulnerable because that meant that Zayn _saw him sleeping for god sake._ It sounds like a secret, sacred, and way too big of a deal apparently as Zayn entertains him with a laugh "you sleep like an angel don't worry".

"why are you cooking me breakfast?" Harry ask's next, careful and soft like he's scared he might break this fragile thing they have between them. he just about wants to shove the words back into his mouth when Zayn looks between him and the plate he's pushing toward him "what's wrong with that love?"

He almost scoffs, _because last time you seemed to be in a rush to get rid of me_ , but shakes his head instead as he realises how hungry he is, mouth salivating at the glorious scent of breakfast.

"what-you were expecting me to say something else? something like, _Harry i need you, don't leave me_ " and there he goes being a right dickhead again, making Harry swallow and drop his fork, the sudden loss of appetite because he asked a question, didn't invite him to tease and belittle him.

"why do you do that? you be nice, and then as soon as you realise, you're a dick again" Harry challenges. He knows coping mechanisms, built his life around them, knows that Zayn's just as worried of being alone as he is only he would rather push everyone out so they never get the chance to try to break him down.

"why do you always come back then?" Zayn challenges, "so hopelessly devoted to me, i don't even need to try" because he knows how Harry's wired to follow his every command. It was all just a test, seeing how far the boy would break his morals just to do as he wanted, he could probably tear him limb from limb and he would bleed out as he dragged himself back.

"are you really _that_ deprived that you latch on to anyone who shows you even a _smidge_ of kindness?" he just about laughed in his face, making him shy away before the older man had wrapped his hand around his neck to bring him back with a stern "look at me" his voice hoarse with venom and amusement.

"you're just trying to scare me" Harry swallowed, trying to stand his ground and not give in, watching as Zayn's eyebrows raised before he tested "you _are_ scared". Harry shook his head, feeling his pulse hammering against the warm palm of Zayn's hand as he glared back "no-I like it", the feeling of being so dominated to the point of someone holding you by the throat, he could feel himself starting to get hard at the thought of what his behind Zayn's dark glare when he admitted the words. That wasn't his heart racing at the thought of Zayn going to hurt him, it was the possibility of him pinning him down by his throat and fucking him senseless until he was a choking mess, and Zayn stood astonished and just as hard.

"eat your food, I have a meeting to attend to soon that i need to get ready for" Zayn let go, making Harry whimper at the loss of contact before the older boy was almost sprinting from the room to go upstairs. Harry sat, eating the breakfast Zayn provided as he could hear faint sounds of grunts and the shower running, finishing his meal to show himself out and call a cab home, the thought of the hand Zayn held him by wrapped around his own cock as he jacked off to the thought of him leaving a warm feeling in his gut all the ride back.


	18. catching a case

♤

Harry was aware of the accomodating notion that things only went wrong when he was involved. the way the gaping hole in his chest leaked this thick black tar whilst his heart batted against his ribs like naked xylophones crooked and unkept as they protruded this execrable chime each time he breathed. he felt off queue with his words, awkward in that, and as though he was playing a piece of Bach with the sheet lying there empty as the crowd awaited.

It proved with his relationships, the way he never said _i like you_ first, never was the first to _touch_ or _initiate_ like waiting for permission only to end in disaster when the latter lacked the confidence he was capable of the feeling. He was awkward, treaded too lightly, spoke too faint, and it's not like he could blame them when they turned and left him because the only time he can ever function within a relationship was when he was being ordered and prodded at.

That's the problem with Marcus, Marcus always waited for his say and gave him open questions that never could be retorted with a simple yes or no. it was always _you know those vitamins i got you for your breakfast? how are they going?_ not _are you taking them?_ it was _where do you wanna go out tonight? my treat!_ not _did you wanna?_ like he had figured him out and solved the problem that was Harry Styles' intricate dating guide. he wouldn't be surprised if he had a note book with all these answers jotted down, three steps ahead of him as he sat across from him on the couch and prepared himself to ask what movie he wanted to watch next and not _if._

Then there was Zayn. Zayn was straight forward with it; sex. yet, he seemed far more impenetrable than Marcus with his twisted words and suggestive motions because Harry never knew what was next. There was something wild about it, something that drew Harry in and made the black tar ooze out burning hot that stuck him in place and kept him from moving. Sometimes he worried that if he didn't get this hole fixed, eventually it would bleed from his mouth and lap the ground around him, destroying everything in its path as he stood there agape yelling "can you see it?" as Marcus waited for his response on whether or not he wanted _Chinese_ or _Mexican_ for dinner.

This is where he was met right now, cowering in his apartment on the mildew casted floorboards absent of the gloss that was probably once there, many years ago, hand feeding Leroy and ignoring the stench of the two day worn star wars novelty shirt he is certain isn't even his- unless he managed to forget to eat enough that he too was weltering away like the floor boards beneath him-all because he caught a horrible case of _Look what you've got yourself into this time._ and a self deprecating pang in his chest as his thumb braced over the letters on his keyboard whilst figuring out how to go about this.

 _Hey marcus, it's Harry. i like you and all but i don't think this will work out. it's not you, it's me._ But then again that sounded too wiki-how-to-break-up-with-someone and found himself back to square one. That was before his phone lit up with the name standoffish and bold, ringing loud enough to scare Leroy off and make him drop the bowl of cat food before groaning at himself and standing to answer "hello?"

"hey, i was out and bought two subs, did you want tomato or no tomato? i'm okay with either-also i got this weird orange drink that says it's good for stomach aches but then this other one was grape and so i bought both of them because i wasn't sure which flavour you liked more" He was already buzzing him up, assuming he was down at the gate waiting for him to, and gave up on himself as he took a seat on the couch that ached beneath him and yelled at his pathetic attempts.

Marcus always knew what to say, even when Harry had not shown up for work for three days following leaving Zayn's because he was certain if he faced the boy he would unload all this nonsense of how terrible he is because he slept with Zayn again, and he knows they aren't exactly dating-still in the honeymoon stages of getting to know and feel someone-but for gods sake, he's a mess.

"I brought the inbetweeners, it's bloody cold in here, what's up with the heater?" Marcus shut the door all too soft and careful, tracking in with Leroy in tow as he curved around his legs and purred for attention.

"it's broken" he responded, picking at a blistering scab in his knee looking all to familiarly like Italy now that his attention resisted the urge to look back at the boy over his shoulder as he searched for plates. he hummed in discontent before making his way over to Harry, rounding the couch and looking down at him as if to figure out what the matter was. Luckily for his case, he looked like pure shit and could pass for sick as Marcus came to the conclusion it must've been true before sitting down beside him to ask "how do you feel?"

"better-i'll come into work tomorrow, i promise" Harry composed, taking the sub from Marcus and setting it on his lap as the other boy flicked through the settings on the television to sort out the dvd system.

"Harry, love, i'm not here to force you back into employment" he laughed momentarily "plus-Sarah is rather enjoying the extra shifts. did i tell you she has plans of going to Australia next year? Crazy" it only made Harry feel worse, picking at the edges of the wholemeal bun-because white wasn't healthy, says Marcus-and nodding along.

"you sure you're okay?" Marcus pushed the hair that hid his face from having to look at him, leaning over to capture his gaze as if not taking it right now, because he never knew how to leave things with Harry which was endearing yet so annoying. He simply nodded again, feeling small for repeating himself as if it were to convince the latter.

"anyway-i came here to ask you something" Marcus smiled like a golden retriever when he got excited, bouncing on all fours and gawking at Harry like he was a prized possession that had the power to hoist ships with his voice and power cities with his smile when he tried.

"I was thinking-This place isn't getting any newer, plus you're always so tired from taking the tube so early in the morning to get to work, plus the crime rate up here- i hate the thought of you walking home alone" He gestured with his hands, Harry following his movements rather than his words as he nodded in acknowledgment. Of course it worried him sometimes, sharing his carriage with drunken addicts spewing curses and falling by the jolts of the rails like sea sick sailors, holding his case a little tighter behind himself so they wouldn't see it under his coat. He stayed close to the street when walking home, under the light, looking over his shoulder every now and then over a sudden noise that triggered a rush in his blood, but after a while it simply becomes a habit of the normal.

"i want you to move in with me" Harry remembers him groaning about last week when Brandon's friend flaked on moving in, meaning they had a vacant room, so he would be doing them a deal of help if anything, but it all seemed overwhelming.

"i don't know..."

"i don't want to pressure you-i'm just worried about you sometimes. you seem vacant recently-"

"vacant?" Harry spat back.

"you know what i mean" Marcus sighed, not caring to argue, which Harry understood he could be vexing at times but it's not like he meant it. When the room returned to its quiet demeanour, he sunk into the couch as if he were to disappear if he was quiet enough.

"who is that guy?" Marcus appeared timorous and stiff, voice shaking suddenly as he pushed back the hair from his own face. he seemed he didn't even want to know and hoped Harry were to soothe his worries then.

"Zayn? he's my boss" that was it, it wasn't a lie.

" _just_ your boss?" he pressed, and Harry held his gaze on the television as he nodded "i wouldn't worry about him".

"do you love me?" Marcus nudged his weight over, the couch screaming as Harry's lungs cracked beneath the surface and rattled like old pipes trying to work up the strength to answer, clogged up and weary of their use. "I-I-" he stuttered.

"i shouldn't have asked" he dropped his sub, standing and gathering his jacket as Harry oozed out before him.

"wait" it gathered up in his mouth and his jaw felt jarred with tension as he folded over his arm to stop him from leaving. god, how pathetic he felt. He lunged after him, bare of words to offer and tenderness to chase. Instead, he held him tight and closed in on him like a secret affair between two lovers, a hushed whisper of air parting his lips and despondent as he met his mouth.

Harry let Marcus fuck him because he knew that's what he wanted, knew that's how to fix it. He slumped against his side and watched the boy sleep with ease as he traced his finger tips over the stygian smudges that enveloped his limbs, hand prints and thumb tracks of the black oozing substance soaking his skin and painting him almost completely. He wanted to wipe it off, scratch and scrub until there was no trace of _Harry_ left over and then send him off bright and clean as he walked the other way. he didn't mean to dirty him. he wished he could build the courage to apologise but then there's the thought to be so lonely without it, and the thought in itself was so overbearing that he found himself wracking with sobs the next moment, covering his mouth with his pillow as he sunk into the mattress beside Marcus' sleeping form as his lungs snapped and crackled his organs falling out on display until he found himself _truly_.

utterly.

**empty**.


	19. no time to hurt

♤

"What's wrong with him?" El nudged at Lou's shoulder, his own figure leaning against the frame of the living room entrance as if just to observe and solve it. 

"i mean, he's not moping around, that's good-right?" his eyebrows folded as he turned to face his fiancé in question, because not even _he_ could figure out what the hell was going through the boys head as he sat on the floor of the living room in his briefs, pages of words scattered across the floor around him as he turned toward them erratically as though trying to solve a formula. His guitar hadn't left his hands, the broken strings tucked behind as he stared at the crumpled papers before him in a trance. 

"i think he's lost it" El admits, and just thanks god that Harry showed up to the door of the apartment owned by Louis' friend/more of a brother who was away for a month and loaned them the place while they were down there planning their wedding rather than be anywhere else in this state. "i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i just need to be away" he explained hesitantly, shaking his hands about as if trying to show them _this is just all so big_ and the mere sight of him was enough. He looked sleepless and exhausted, and Louis called up his work to convince Marcus, who had no problem, that Harry was still very sick _measles ! everywhere ! you might wanna get checked too ! i heard your dick falls-_ followed by El kicking him in the shin. The first night he stayed, he cried for hours before El came into the room covering herself with her robe as she grumbled about how apparently it was necessary that if you lived in the city, that your radiator would be broken, and cuddled up to him as he chuckled sorely through it. 

"boy trouble?" she offered, making him cough a laugh that turned into a tremble and a sob, and she hushed him as she brushed back his hair with her fingers and massaged his scalp gently. He hates how it made him seem, always crying about a guy, and the next day when they woke up to see he was already up and making them breakfast-confused was one way to put it. 

it's like he flipped a switch, all emotion was off and put aside because right now, he had to focus on the message he received last night before bed when that producer man sent him through a message about how he wanted to see him play. He was working at the lucozade in four days, which meant he had four days to tirelessly ache and strum as his wrists began to bleed from the strings whipping and licking at him in exhaust. 

Marcus called resiliently, Zayn _didnt_ , but he didn't have time to think about either of them as he sipped on his third coffee that morning. 

On the third day, Eleanor woke up at one in the morning to meet Harry in the kitchen when she did her usual round to go check on him, even when Louis called her out on trying to be his mother when he was an adult, and she scolded him as he grumbled and turned on his side to go back to sleep. He was up, as expected, tugging on his curls as he tried to fumble with the pot of coffee in his hand, fingers shaking to the point of unbearable to El as she took it from him and his eyes flicked over her worried ones "i need to feed Leroy, i haven't seen Leroy-" 

"Marcus is doing that" she knows he knew, because when they called and told Marcus about Harry being sick and away for a few days, in true Marcus fashion, he asked what he could do. El just asked that he looked after Leroy, and knowing Marcus, he was probably worried sick and over feeding the little guy as he slept on Harry's couch-but he couldn't think about that. 

"well, then i need to go for a walk" his legs ached like they had been unused, folded over the floor of the living room the passed few days only getting up to make himself coffee or breakfast. "it's too late-Harry-whats wrong?"

He just stared at her, like she caught him, found a loose thread and pulled on it. He always knew he was weak for El, like she was a motherly figure to him in a way, always observant. 

"my dad, he's dead" he received a message from a cousin he hadn't seen since he was little, saying that he knows Harry's got his issues with his dad, but he thought that he should know and that the funeral was sunday. he's sure no one expected him to show, or to talk, and he knows his father didn't have many friends or family still willing to talk to him, but just seeing the words written out before him made him sink. 

"suicide" he didn't want to know, couldn't fathom it. His mother left years ago because she was going to take her own life if she stayed and kept being miserable, and after his father turned to Harry with his anger following the death of his father, she just went out one day and didn't come back. Harry woke up two mornings later and finally popped the question "where's mom?" and he just grunted and sipped at his gin "gone". 

he didn't know what _gone_ meant. if she was dead, or sick, coming back, but he felt it unlikely. he just nodded. 

"do you want to cancel this?" she placed her hand to the small of his back, leaning in as though it were a secret between them and she was coaxing _come on, just tell me_ but he had come too far to back out. the show was tomorrow. so he didn't. he let Eleanor make him a warm glass of milk while he went and stood under the hot spray of the shower, watching as the sweat and exhaustion slithered down the drain between his toes, he felt like he was shedding a new layer of skin following the news of his father. it was heavy, but almost as if lighter in a way. Of course he felt for the man, but he just couldn't bring himself to cry. _does that make me a bad person?_ he asked Eleanor when he appeared back into the kitchen in Louis' sweats that rode up his ankles and a football jersey as she shook her head "no, of course not". she accompanied him, sitting up with him for a bit longer before telling him to get his ass to sleep.


	20. moments

♤

_This is it. He climbs the steps riding up to the entrance of the stage coming from the foyer where Dominik -a fake blonde, five foot six, stalky girl plays a benign set of Julie London among some country hits, an emotional synergy that's soothes this agape burn in his chest he's felt overwhelming and thrumming in his ear all day, perching and nesting in his stomach._

_This is it. he tells himself, breathing through the fog that coincides in his vision and he feels blinded by the weight that's pushing him forward, a force invisible yet so-there-so predominant and prevalent. He stands before them, can hear the echo of scuffle as his shoes all-too-big for him reminding him of the days when he was younger and he would steal the shell cordovan boots his grandpa had stored in the cupboard unused for years but worn out plenty from their time, and he would put them on along with his Burberry coat and walk around the house pointing about his umbrella like it was a microphone stand and singing along to_ ClarenceCarters _biggest hits like_ part time lover, _and,_ snatching it back _until his father would get home and everything would be stored away neatly_ _, thrash against the floor only known to him._

_He's a good actor though, and he purses his lips as he holds back his shoulders, opening his lungs as he begins to strum..._

_this is it._

**earlier that day..**

the good thing about El and Lou is that they know how to handle Harry. they know how to be patient with him and when to step in or when to let him be. He knows he can be a codependent mess sometimes, but it's good to know they're there. It's also good because when it gets to this point, and they know he's barely holding on, they sit him down on the couch with a cup of coffee in hand and he sighs because _this is it, this is where they kick me out and tell me to get over it_ but he should know them better by now because El's hand is on his knee and Lou isn't giving him that look where his eyebrows contort like he's holding himself back from ripping one at him, his porcelain blue eyes soft and mellow, as they go on; "Harry, we are going home on sunday," which he _knows_ because he's been counting down the torturous days slowly, and it bubbles in his stomach like an awful reminder and a sick trick they're playing. 

"we want you to move in with us...for a bit" that takes him off guard. 

"i think it's good for you-and for us-" El tries, gesturing excessively with her hands flying about because they _know_ how he can get, how he'll shake his head _no that's okay but thanks for the offer_ before going home and leaving them in his message bank for a week. 

"plus," Louis trails off as he looks between Eleanor, silently discussing something, his eyes growing eager and excited as he glares back to Harry and exclaims "El's gonna need an extra hand around the shop for a bit" and it takes Harry a once over as he glares between the two, figuring it out, his hands covering his stomach like it's unsettled but in a fresh way "you're?" 

"pregnant!" She gasps, nudging Lou a bit two hard as he sits there fondly. 

"oh my god...that's..that's amazing" he doesn't really know what to say to that. 

He can picture them, a little girl on Lou's hip with big sapphire eyes, fresh and full of life, pale and new. El would dress her in little gowns her mother would craze over in rapid colours of violet, green, and yellow. Can see fists made to hold, thrusting at the air as she stills on top of Lou's shoulders, radiant giggle that spikes the air as El walks beside them and they are wandering through a park, just because they can, because they have nowhere to be, and the stroller is rolling along with them as little toys shake and shine in the reflection of the sun. El humours her mom will kill her if she can't fit into this wedding dress, and that they haven't told anyone else but Harry yet, that they are only three weeks along. 

El and Lou are barely older than him, that's true, but they treat him as if he's their son, with his annoying antics and their constant worry calling him up just to hear his voice some days-and he thinks, maybe it's nice to have someone. They sit around and talk for a bit, and by the end of it, they've agreed that Harry would come stay with them for now, because he nods _he needs it_ , he knows. 

"i need to do some stuff" he picks up his jacket and goes for a walk. he walks, and he walks, for an hour, until he reaches the music store he works in. Sarah is up front, pen between teeth as she goes through stock and counts orders, offering him a shake of her hand in hello. He hasn't ever talked to her much, not really, never being on at the same time as her, and he coughs into his hand as he approaches her and she comes to stand straight "hey stranger" of course though, she's charming, unlike Harry who if the roles were reversed, would probably crane his neck and avoid eye contact awkwardly until she got what she came for and left. 

"is-um-is Marcus here?" he knows he's always there regardless of whether or not he's working, always sticking his head in and offering a hand, or a break, always engaging in conversation with customers and stragglers just looking to pass the time for the day. She nods, gesturing with her thumb _out back_ and Harry thanks her through a crooked awkward smile and gentle eyes as he passes through the threshold, the crazy orange plastic beads Marcus said was there when he bought the place and he couldn't bring himself to get rid of cause of its _funky_ look, and if he were looking to be quiet and ginger, he fails as they rattle and expose his position. Marcus looks up through big brown bands that sit on his nose as he goes through the cash to take to the bank, so he takes note to make it quick as he smiles kindly and he must tell somethings up, because he takes off his frames and puts them to his side as he points to the chair. only, Harry cant bring himself to move, his feet planted, and he can't look at him now "we need to talk".

"that we do" Marcus seems like he's expected this, seen it coming, licking his lips in patience. 

"I cant do this to you anymore, i need to tell you-" 

"okay, so, breathe, just tell me" even now, even when Harry's standing before him sweat stained and gritty, dirty as ever, his hair crazed from the constant thrusting of his fingers through it in stress all the way down to this moment, he's still so nice.

"i slept with him" he offers a look, because he feels if he can't see Marcus' reaction now he may explode, and the boy just nods once as his hands rest on the desk. 

"Zayn. He's my boss, but we started-i don't know-messing around. that was before i met you, though, and when i met you-you know-" he's going a million miles per second "you were nice, with your fucking _Marvin Gaye_ smile, and you're clean-clean skin. i thought, _that's_ _what_ _i_ _wanted_ , i wanted _picket_ _white_ _fences_ and _chardonnay_ , and _vinyls_ and _coffee_ _on_ _a_ _sunday_ _morning_. then i went and fucked it up, i slept with Zayn again-a-and i tried to not think i wanted it, that it wasn't me, but it was me-and i wanted it-and i cant keep doing this" he's not even sure he had a second to breathe once it's all out. it's laid down in front of them, in patches and oozes of black tar that cover the desk before them and the chair, and the carpet, and Marcus is just staring at him expectedly. 

"well," he starts, like it was a lot to process, and he can see the gears churning in his head as he breathes before he's leaning back in his chair and _oh god-he's speaking-_

"well-do you love him?"

_love?_

he doesn't even know how to respond. 

When he doesn't respond, Marcus nods, like he knows "you-"

"I-" Harry interrupts, because he can't hear it, not from Marcus. "can't, do this, anymore".

"so then choose me-Harry-you said it yourself" 

"i have a set to play tonight. If this pans through, i could be looking at a record deal, which means i'm moving away" He spares "which is also why i'm coming by...to hand in my name tag" 

_ah, so you're leaving_ he sees it flash across his face. it's submission. defeat. in another timeframe, Harry would crawl into his chest in comfort and shake his head _no. you mean everything to me._

"let me get your paycheck then" Marcus looks tense, but in pure Marcus-fashion, he packs it up and gets it done with. he loads some notes into an envelope he cards through his draws for and Harry can't even bring himself to look at him. he can't take anymore from him "please, no, keep it," but Marcus' cold glare shuts him up. 

"let me just do this" so he does.

**now.**

_So here he is, his fingers picking nervously, a little tedious feeling ruptures through him like all this built up anticipation was for now and suddenly it seems so far from as much as he built it up to be. he breathes._

"Just stop your crying  
It's a sign of the times  
Welcome to the final show  
Hope you're wearing your best clothes"

and he goes. and he goes. and he strums loud, no longer scared by the creaks of the floorboards beyond his door, no longer careful to not let them hear him bleed, no longer holding it back as it pours out of him. 

_fuck you dad-you had issues with your dad, i'm sorry, but it was your job to save me from that same fate. look what you did to me, can you see me bleeding?_

fuck Harry Styles and his stupid self destructive tendencies, for hurting Marcus and letting it go too far with Zayn, for never patching things up with his dad and for everything. he's new, he feels reborn, spreading before them all under the intense glow of white haze that he basks in and allows to eat him entirely. shed this skin, and from it, birth me new and fresh to press on gingerly and to graze my fingers over virgin folds, sparkling and conditioned, not yet dirtied, not yet burned.

_"we got to get away"._

for real, they roar, they watch and perch on counters with their elbows folded and ears blaze. he reaches out to them and touches them, he sees them, and they see him. 

"Harry" and it's Lou, and El, and they engulf him into a massive hug that he allows himself to soak in as they praise his performance. 

"Harry Styles" a man approaches, shiny gold tooth, splaying the news of how he would like to hear from him as soon as possible "with your decision" to sign some papers, and he's in. It's a ceremony short-lived as they fall out the door to take a car back to the apartment and celebrate with some wine (and water for El) when the air turns staggered, pulling on him. 

"Zayn" he's breathless, like he always is around the mans presence. 

"so, when were you going to tell me?" Harry approached Ed upon his first arrival to hand over the papers of his release. he was never contracted to work with Zayn, it was simply an agreement, telling him of the news that this would be his last performance. 

"i've made up my mind" he stands his ground this time, though sails shake and bones rattle before the wind that passes between their space threatening to draw him under.

"and you chose him?" pissed? 

"i chose myself" he shakes his head, breathing out his contorted air before reaching out to touch Zayn who _stares._ he looks so feeble now, on display, his eyes fill with discontent and anger as Harry's hand touches his cheek, but doesn't turn away. "come back with me" Harry thinks he hears him say. 

"no" his thumb soaks up the warmth of his inferno, one last time. 

Zayn doesn't stammer, doesn't yell, just looks at him as Harry's lips touch his own. one last time. "please look after yourself, Zayn Malik" _and maybe one day, when the timing is right, our lines will cross over and meet._

this is it.


	21. epilogue

♤

Curling his hand over the display of mismatched pages of writing and symbols, he breathes a stammered breath of air. The first album was a success. Harry Styles, critically acclaimed as the debut album that shocked the charts and numbered first in more countries he can count in one hand. The success brought him fame, and Lou would argue over the phone from his and El's home in Malibu that he was too big for them now, and he would laugh at the silly notion as he promised to be back soon.

It was a scary drop, and although he knew he wasn't alone in this because he had El and Lou (along with their daughter Amara), and now his manager turned best friend, Jeff, he couldn't have imagined any more than this. His stomach churned, it's loud vibration playing over the piano he fingers at lazily, and Jeff is standing by the door with his arms folded and that look on his face he gives him when he's about to dad-him. 

"I'm in the space," Harry argues, when he knows he's about to lose anyway. With the success that was his first album, he can't help the underlying fear that comes with the expectation of this next one. How does he beat "best-selling first week by a British artist", how does he mean more than just a rating on a scale? He keeps his head up, though, for the sake of Lou and El, and for the dear heart of Jeff, but he can't help the numbing burden that calls to hours upon hours of sitting around his flat hopelessly kneading at his sheets and instruments. With the fountains of love came fountains of hate, and it was something that he had never really had to deal with before. When he used to play for clubs, he never had to see the headlines that starred his name on the front cover of whatever magazine, and he didn't need to log on to an app and find dozens of people discussing the _definite_ upcoming fall of his career as a young artist.

"Inexperienced-he will crack under the pressure," there's nothing more he hated than the pity of these platforms. They deem him another one hit wonder, a kid who will either fall short, or get involved with the bad side of Hollywood like many of his peers. 

"Let's just go get dinner" Jeff coaxes, not wanting to get into a row tonight over how the boy is overworking himself. Upon the release of his album, there was the radio promotion, and the adverts he'd sit up hours to absorb their stupid jokes so that he could never watch them, and then the interviews where he had to sit around and pretend he knew what he was talking about whilst the host dug for relationship scandals over song writing, and he started to wonder when it became no longer just about the music. 

"Just order something" he grumbled, repeating a key as he crossed out a line. His fingers were cramped, bandaids coating other bandaids that bled through, and Jeff rolled his eyes as he perched down on the seat beside him. "listen to me," he cupped the boys cheeks between his hands, staring into him as he waited for his attention. 

"You don't need to be _Harry Styles_ every day," 

Harry interrupted him with a laugh, averting his eyes despite the hard tone of his friend who sat waiting for him with a nasty look on his face that Harry pouted at. "I'm saying, just take a break some time" Jeff put it simple, pinching Harry's shirt and shooing him off of his seat to _go take a shower because we're going out._

The roads were unlawfully crowded for this time of night, but who would be surprised seems it LA. This is the time the night crawlers peak out from their homes and take to the streets, parties that last until mornings, in clubs and neighbourhoods out of a movie cinema screen. Harry didn't mind it, unlike Jeff who huffed and tutted over the _morons out at night_ who apparently cant drive as he cuts off someone and the latter chuckles into the back of his hand. 

His fingers are strumming against the side of the car, the hood folded over so he can breathe in the night, potent of drugs and a buzz that settles in his chest. he imagines these the types of moments friends howl out the side of their trucks as their friends scream to an eighties tune like _It must've been love by rosette,_ or a hit from _The Zombies,_ like _I cant make up my mind_. His eyes catch on a red glow that hangs over the windshield of the car, devouring his attention as he turns to face the sign that calls "grand opening of The Lucozade" followed by an arrow. 

"Turn in here," Harry makes a jump to point, catching Jeff off guard as he gasps "what?"

"Just turn in here," It's like any other words get trapped on his tongue, knowing he'll just repeat the sentence if he dare ask again. He sighs, shaking his head at the kid whilst adjusting the wheel to make the sharp exit onto the road. There's not so many cars, not those that chase after the viper room or such an establishment, but _grand_ is the right word as parks fill the zone and Jeff swears they'll get mugged in such an area. 

"Don't be ridiculous," Harry would know, "I'm not famous right now, remember?" He'd usually spit at the word, hating to use such a title—it feels demeaning to him as a person-but he'll use it to get a kick out of Jeff. 

The man guarding the door is unfamiliar to him, and there's small whispers than whirl passed his ear of clear acknowledgement. Jeff probably hesitates at first glance of the club, that this definitely won't look good on the news tomorrow, but keeps it to himself when the guard passes them through. 

The room is a sensual red that vibrates against his chest at the tumble of chords coming from the main stage, and the notion of nostalgia pricks at him for a second as he buries it and they wait to be seated. The music is a nice list of Jazz, and Harry thinks it's perfect for the girl dressed in a white gown with her hair curled back in a tight pin whilst Jeff goes over the menu. 

"Sir," he looks up to find the large frame and familiar tattoo, smiling bright as the other tries to scare him. 

"Ed" He rises to bring the man into a hug, arms falling short of making it around his buff structure, making him seem so small in comparison. 

"Look at you, all famous" Jeff fumbles his eyebrows at the man who carries on talking like he's not even there. 

"Heyyy" he whines, embarrassed, when he lingers to ask him another question. Of course, that's what dragged him here to begin with, but he's not so scared of it like he was then. It's like when you are fighting against the current, the waves tidling over him in screams that take him under when he forgets to let go, and that if he just let go of his limbs, the water would carry him to where he needed to go. All he had to do was breathe. 

"I'm sure he's busy, I shouldn't," he faces Jeff who looks clueless now. He promises that this be normal, and that although it's certainly weird that this is where he ended up tonight, he doesn't want to step on those boundaries. 

Ed scoffs, an amused look on his face as he folds his arms "you haven't changed a day" it's not an insult, more like a connotation to him. They sit there as time fades like it's been days without Harry consistently staring at the clock, absorbing the glow of the red lights, and the stage where the artists come to play before falling away to their normal lives Harry romanticises these days. He's definitely feeling the drinks, hooded eyes as he awes at the stage and Jeff looks tired. 

"You should go home," Harry calls on him, making him shake his head in certainty "no way in hell". 

It's probably stupid of an idea, Harry would agree on any other occasion, he's afraid to be alone. Only, he feels engrossed in the moment, and doesn't want to be a further pain to his poor friend who has had such a busy day anyway. Somehow, he manages to twist him out of the booth and call him a cab to go home to his wife, making him promise about a dozen times to call him if he needs him. 

"Oh, I didn't order this," Harry leans back against the cushion of the booth as a waiter comes over with some sort of concoction. They look unamused, and probably tired, assuming he's too drunk to even remember purchasing it. For a moment, he thinks maybe they're right, before there's a stutter in the air that bites his skin and forces his attention upward, seeing through the deep red fog of the room to where a hand snatches the toothpick from his drink and he swallows harsh. 

"I thought I had to see it for myself," the familiar depth of his voice, grainy and choking the air from Harry's mouth as he stares a moment too long at the man who sits before him in the booth. "Harry Styles, at my club" he looks softer, the stubble on his chin trimmed back but the crease of his eyes a little younger than what he's used to. 

"Zayn," he feels caught, embarrassed even. 

"You look good" he eases into the conversation, arms draped over the back of the couch, he's always so calm. 

"S-So do you-" he reminds himself to breathe "I'm sorry". Zayn's looking at him confused, like he knows exactly what he's saying but in a way he wants him to say it for himself anyway. 

"I didn't mean to ruin your night" what was he thinking? Dragging himself in here and taking a seat, taking his service with no concern. 

"It's a nice place—i sold the old place to renovate. Business went down, Ed practically carried me to therapy" Zayn laughed, and maybe that's why he seemed so much lighter. Harry would be lying if he said he was so well composed, he himself having to go and see a therapist as one of the first things Jeff did when he signed with him. He had turmoil, years of it, and there was no way he was going to be able to fathom the industry on top of it. During his time in therapy, he wrote majority of his album, but that part he wouldn't share with the world. He still goes to see his therapist, Julia, every few weeks just to catch up, and he's doing much better. 

"I was angry," Zayn looked ashamed, "at you, at myself, at my life," he explained. 

"I'm in control now" He put it shortly. Harry would find that the best answer. He knew just how deep that went. 

"I'm glad you're doing well then" Harry made himself smile, genuinely meaning it when the words left his mouth. Zayn hummed, taking the brief silence before almost stammering out, "do you think about me? Sometimes...like I think about you?" 

The question churned inside of him. If only he knew the lyrics he composed for him. 

"Maybe that was too straight forward, sorry," Zayn shook his head before Harry could answer "yes". It must've taken him by surprise, if the look on his face speaks for anything. He pictures him to be angry, probably hating him, and that's something he feared most about the chances of seeing him tonight. 

"I forgave you, long ago" It's like he read him, clearing the air and diminishing Harry's worries when he nods in return. 

"I don't think you understand how good it is to see you," Through the darkness of the booth and the mellow of the music in the back amongst chatter, Harry can see the tears swimming in Zayn's eyes. He's never seen him cry, and it even brings tears to his own eyes before he laughs and tries to act cool about it. 

Harry's not sure how many more drinks along it takes before he's found himself sinking over the top of the taller mans frame, his arms gripping him tightly as if not to let him fall as he gasps "Harry-you idiot-stand up" and he breathes in his cologne, oddly enough, reminiscing in the scent. He watches him momentarily through thick splayed lashes, eyes landing on his lips as though he suddenly realises how much he's missed them. 

Licking his own, he nods as though agreeing to it silently, knowing Zayn's question, allowing him to catch his lips then. The alcohol settles in his stomach, pathing way for his breath that shallows when he opens his mouth, Zayn's tongue sweeping his bottom lip as he falls compliant. He's missed this, he's missed him, his legs catching on the back of a cushioned surface as he falls back into darkness. Zayn follows him, a huff of laughs that fall from their chests as they dive into one another, Zayn taking Harry's hand in his own as he pushes it over his head and pulls away to unbutton his shirt. 

When he looks up, the display of Zayn's bare chest and it's tattoos that cover the old ones, he lets his hand drag over the planes of virgin flesh and relishes in the way Zayn allows him, finally managing his shirt from his back and tossing it aside. 

Zayn is soft, in the folds of his hands over his thighs as he parts him there, and kisses his mouth, eyes refusing to leave him as Harry reaches for his hands in desperate plea to hold on to him when he kisses patches of skin tenderly, warmth spreading through him as his fingers dip below his abdomen and he takes them in with a gasp. Of course, he's had sex since Zayn. At first he relied on it, for a bit, just to feel connected to other people. Then it just started to feel wrong, for a long time. 

He's speaking into his mouth, words falling short of one set syllables that Harry swallows and curls his toes at. 

He's admittedly already leaking, a mixture of alcohol and the taste of Zayn he's longed for un admittedly months. When he lines up above him, arms to either side of Harry's head as he loops his hands around them and holds tight, he kisses his chest once, a low groan falling from his mouth as he finally breaks the distance between them and Harry's walls clench, his mouth turning into an 'o' shape that Zayn breathes into and waits for him to adjust. 

He nods into his mouth, willing him to continue as Zayn steadies his hips with a slow pace. Harry takes him in, tastes the warmth of his mouth hot on his skin as it caresses his flesh and licks the line of his jaw that points toward the ceiling in a low moan. He's panting air between them, Zayn matching him as he deepens his hips, and Harry can feel himself tipping. 

He's not quick to brief warning, twitching suddenly as his eyes close shut, his lips parting as an unruly sound falls from his mouth in a form of the word "Zayn". 

It pushes him over, filling the condom as he heaves over the top of Harry who's trying to catch his own breath. Intertwining his fingers, Zayn falls beside him when he pulls out and ties it off, humming into Harry's neck as he closes his eyes a moment. 

"You're fucking beautiful" Zayn cards his hand through Harry's scalp, allowing him to take in his warmth as he purs against it, a delicate smile on his face as he embraces the silence of the room. 

When he opens his eyes next, it's bright, the light taking him by surprise as he wonders for a moment if he's possibly dead. This room is not his, and it's unfamiliar, but at the same time cozy. It's filled with little things like mugs that stand over book covers that burn rings into the paper of, and discs that are spread over the floor beside a player as though time had stilled between someone choosing the next track. 

Some posters stood framed, and the bed smelled of earth in a way, only richer, the white covers swallowing him. Then, he remembered Zayn, and how they stumbled into the back of a cab and drove over to his house. He remembers commenting on the way it looked different despite it being the exact same structure. When he pushes the door and reaches the top of the stairs, his thoughts dwindle in slight fear that this is only a repeat of past time, and that Zayn has left. 

He holds the throw he stole from the corner of the bed when he can't find his clothes on the floor, and even worry for a moment he's been robbed before tracking downstairs where the strong scent of herbs fill his nostrils. He can hear the buzz of a tune not so familiar to him coming from a speaker, but it's old and nostalgic in the sense, listening as someones voice covers the original and he can't help but smile. 

"I think you should take up my career if this whole club thing doesn't pan through," he calls from the entrance of the kitchen, the sight of Zayn's tanned back on display as he leans over the stove and whistles, almost yelling as he turns to meet his gaze "you scared the shit out of me". 

"I'm sorry" he begins to walk through, reaching his shoulder to peer over. He hesitates for a moment before he looks to see Zayn eyeing him from the side, pausing his flipping of bacon to just look at him and take him in with his curly hair in a mess to the side of his face, morning dripping from his hooded eyes and fresh skin. 

"Take a seat, smart ass" he warns with the point of the tongs, making Harry kiss his shoulder briefly before parting with him to take a peak around. The furniture is different, a funny looking orange that doesn't fit the green carpet. There's tins of paint off to the side like he's meaning to coat the walls, and various comics stacked around the white graffitied table in the middle of it. It's chaotic but comfortable. He sifts through his collection of vinyls, pausing on his own, but continuing to look through them wordlessly. 

"We eat!" Zayn yells from the kitchen in an exaggerated but weird accent. 

"And then we dance!" Harry flips the record, putting on _fire and rain_

"And then we fuck" Zayn smirked, taking his chance to push the cover of the blanket over Harry's shoulders when the latter gasps "I'm naked under this!" 

"That's the point, idiot" Zayn kisses his shoulder, easing in to his guide as he sways his hips like an old couple to _James Taylor_ in the background.


End file.
